


chance is the only game i play with, baby

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Boxer AU, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Human!thirteen, Smut, TW:Gender Dysphoria, Yaz/Ryan - brotp, boxer!thirteen, boxer!yaz, firefighter!thirteen, nb!Yaz, personal trainer!yaz, thasmin, yeah u read that right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: When Sheffield's best meets its next up-and-coming talent, a competitive hobby turns into something much more.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan, Yasmin Khan/Martha Jones
Comments: 90
Kudos: 128





	1. i cut my lip (isn't what i want)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freefallvertigo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freefallvertigo/gifts).



> yes im back again with another fic no one asked for !!!! ur correct!!!! if you like it please leave a comment so i know its ok to carry on x if u dont pls dont come for me im just a baby ill probably cry
> 
> TW: gender dysphoria / anxiety

Each blow feels more numb than the last, each swipe of a fist against their cheek, their jaw, their stomach feels like a mere nudge from a stranger in a crowded bus. 

As a result of which, each mirror they pass in the changing room after their strenuous session goes unused and unwitnessed. If they can’t feel the dull ache lining their right eyelid or taste copper between the lines of pearly whites to their full effect, then what’s the point in assessing the damage? 

“Took a beating there tonight, Yaz. Everything alright, mate?” Ryan — the grandson of their dedicated coach and also their best friend since childhood — crows just shy from the exit, where he bounces a basketball between open palms. 

Swiping the ball from his hands, Yaz makes a confident path towards the hoop nailed to the exterior wall of the sports centre and perfects a shot in less than a minute. “Never been better. Still Sheffield’s top, ain’t I?”

“Guess we’ll find out at the match on Saturday,” Ryan taunts, waggling his brows. Yaz bounces the orange basketball back to him and readjusts their rucksack over their denim jacket, their helmet tucked under their arm. “Feeling nervous?” 

“Nervous?” Yaz scoffs, accepting the ball when Ryan tosses it their way in a game of catch. “This is going to be the easiest fight of my life. I’m up against a rookie.” 

“I’ve heard she’s pretty good though, mate. A natural talent.” 

“You doubting me, Ry? Thought you were my best friend.” 

“Aw, Yaz. I’m only joking. You know you’ll always be my number two.”

“Number two?”

“No one tops ol’ Betty, mate.” 

“Of  _ course _ . You and that dog are weirdly close.”

“We’re not  _ weird  _ — it’s only because you  _ make _ it weird, Yaz. Honestly, poor Martha having to deal with the way your mind works half the time.” 

“At least I have a girlfriend, mate.” 

“Oof. Get me right where it hurts.” 

“That a request?”

“No — oh my God,  _ ow _ . Piss off, Yaz.” 

“What’re you doing here anyway? Graham got you helping out again?” 

“Toilet cleaning duty today.”

“Oh,  _ mate _ . I’ll be thinking of you.”

“Cheers. Now get home and put some ice on that eye before it bursts out while you’re taking care of the missus’.” 

“And  _ I’m  _ the one with the gross mind? Enjoy your toilet cleaning. I heard someone left a nice surprise for you in the back bathroom.”

“S’that why you smell so bad today, Yaz?”

“Piss off.” 

“Tell Martha I said hi!”

Yaz secures their helmet over their head and lifts the visor to offer up one last smirk to their best friend. Swinging a leg over their motorcycle, they drawl, “Nope.”

Their flat is occupied when they twist the key in the lock and step inside, the television dispersing a string of the day’s headlines while they set their helmet down and shrug their jacket off. 

“Evening, babe,” Martha chimes from the couch, a cup of tea in hand. 

Yaz was hoping not to have to face her so soon, but the world rarely works in their favour any more. Instead, as they step into the soft glow of their dimly lit lounge, Yaz instinctively braces themself for their girlfriend’s onslaught. 

Baring a sheepish grin despite the faint twinge in their bottom lip, Yaz closes the distance to slump down beside her. Perhaps they can get away without inspection since they’re shadowed by their girlfriend’s form. “Evening. When did you get in?” 

Then again, they did ensnare a doctor as their partner, so it’s only a matter of time before Martha heaves a sigh and cups the corner of their jaw which isn’t a shade of dark purple. “ _ Yaz _ .” 

“Hm?” Yaz stitches thick brows together in faux confusion, then leans in to press a kiss to the corner of their girlfriend’s lips. As they peel away, they avert their gaze from concerned brown. “Gonna jump in the shower. The ones at the gym are proper grimy. Wanna join?” 

“Yaz, you need to stop doing this —” 

“No? Alright. Back in a sec, babe.” Another peck and a twinge of guilt in their stomach later, Yaz jumps up on protesting legs and jogs to the spacious bathroom. “Pick a film out to watch while I’m gone?” 

They don’t even need to be listening properly to hear Martha’s resounding hum of disagreement. 

The sound follows them to the sink when, for the first time since their friendly match, Yaz flits their gaze over the patchwork of their right eye and jaw in curiosity. When they touch two fingers to the slightly swollen curve of their jaw, rather than wince in weakness, they simply blow out their cheeks in a sigh. 

They’re going to have to work on their uppercut in time for the next match. 

By the time the day’s blood, sweat and grime have been dispatched down the drain and a fresh pair of pyjama shorts and a hoodie hug their form, Martha has acquired a warmed up meal and a familiar ice pack for them. 

“Don’t even try and tell me you’ve eaten already. You’ve been on your feet all day.”

“So have you.” 

“Yeah, and unlike you, I remember about meal times, babe,” Martha teases, but Yaz doesn’t miss the low laying sincerity in her tone. “Eat up, then let me take a look at you.”

“I’m fine,” Yaz insists, taking a forkful of pasta past their lips after slumping down beside her. “Honestly. Doesn’t even hurt.” 

Martha slinks an arm around the back of the sofa and brushes a camp curl from their eyes. “I just wish you’d take more care of yourself, Yaz. This is the second month in a row you’ve spent more time getting yourself beaten up than being here with me. Is there something on your mind?” 

Shrugging a shoulder, Yaz forks another portion into their mouth and racks their brain for a way to redirect their conversation. Swallowing, they clear their throat. “How was work?”

“Busy,” Martha supplies, attention still focused on the purple brushstrokes lining their jaw. It’s almost suffocating, so after another mouthful, Yaz sets the bowl aside to sag back into the couch. “You’re avoiding.” 

Yaz grumbles under their breath, tugging a purple cushion towards them to clutch to their chest. They tuck their feet up beside them, meeting Martha’s gaze in mild frustration. “Avoiding what? I’m not a kid, Martha. And it’s my hobby — you can’t box without getting a few bruises.”

“I  _ know _ ,” Martha exhales, lifting the ice pack into place and holding it there for it only to be replaced with Yaz’s hand. She drops her arm and folds both over her chest, the film going unwatched. “But you never used to get this bad.”

“Just stepping up my training for the next match,” Yaz lies, dragging the cooling agent up to their swelling eye and hissing through their next inhale. “I want to be prepared, that’s all.”

“I’d rather have you in one piece, babe,” Martha implores through worried eyes Yaz doesn’t deserve. Frustration coats her words, forcing Yaz to roll their eyes and shift in their seat. 

“I’m not quitting,” Yaz asserts with a steady gaze. 

“I’m not asking you too, but — have you considered taking a break? Maybe focusing on your clients instead? Because if it’s keeping in form you’re worried about, being a personal trainer is already enough, believe me,” Martha suggests, and while it’s meant to be a comfort; a reassurance; a recommendation laced in genuine care, all Yaz sees are a series of red lights along an empty road. 

Dropping the ice pack aside and gliding a hand through their hair, Yaz composes themself to keep from letting a mix of exhaustion and aching bones take over their temper. “I’m not taking a break. Boxing is the best thing in my life right now. I need it.”

Martha is silent at their side for seconds which span years. 

Yaz tenses, chasing the words from their mouth and herding them back down their throat. 

“What about me? Do I not come close in your list of priorities?” Martha finally asks. 

“That’s not what I — Martha, that’s not what I meant,” Yaz interrupts through a faint groan, reaching between them for Martha’s hand. “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“Yeah?” Martha prompts, slipping from the couch towards their room. “Maybe you should prove it sometime.”

“ _ Martha.” _

Lingering in the doorway, Martha shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders, expression set like stone. Yaz’s heart clenches in their chest — but, as they realise with a sharp intake of breath — probably not as much as it should considering the person they’re meant to love is apparently no longer their priority. 

“I have an early shift. Enjoy the film,” Martha announces before slipping past the door. 

Flicking the monotonous sounds and words off at the press of a button, Yaz slumps back against the sofa and lets the heavy silence envelop them. If only it could drag them somewhere far away, too. 

Somewhere they wouldn’t spend half their time hiding. 

They leave an hour or so for the tension to dissipate before venturing towards their bedroom. With a stomachful of nausea and a throat just the same, Yaz toes towards the double bed to find Martha clutching a pillow to her chest in shallow sleep. 

“Babe?” 

No response. 

Edging onto the corner of the bed, Yaz gnaws at the corner of their lip, mindful of the swelling slit on the other side. “Martha?”

Still, nothing. Yaz shuffles up to place a hand at her waist above the sheets. “Martha, I’m sorry.” 

She’s awake; they can tell by the way she softens and moulds into their touch.

“Babe, I mean it. I’m sorry. ‘Course you’re my priority.” 

They’re only half lying. That’s still fair, right?

“I’ll ease off right after this match, I promise.” A niggling voice in the back of their head squeals in delight, rubbing their hands together and chanting  _ don’t make promises you can’t keep _ like a broken record. They ignore it in favour of manoeuvring into the space behind her and pressing their lips to her neck. “I can prove it, if you want? I can prove how sorry I am.” 

The sheets rustle around her form when Martha turns from her side onto her back to seek them out. “You promise?”

“Totally,” Yaz whispers, using the darkness to hide the way they avert their gaze. 

Martha guides them down into a kiss which holds promise for much more, and Yaz loses themself to the familiar motions and acts and the backlog of carnal urges they’ve been keeping at bay for some time. 

They don’t meet her gaze when they pull back, instead tossing the sheets aside and Martha’s shirt up to lose themself in her skin. 

It’s only when, five minutes later, they have their hand buried between Martha’s thighs and teeth closing in on a swollen peak, that they realise perhaps this is all they are; all they ever will be. 

When Martha leaves for work the next morning with a kiss to their forehead and a whispered confession, the fashion in which their chest clenches with anxiety and dread over pure glee only cements the decision they have to make sooner rather than later. 

To sit still is to think, so Yaz takes the opportunity a late start offers to go for a run. 

Sheffield is only just waking up as they pave their journey through the streets of the city centre, music thrumming through their ears, feet light against the paving and breaths steady. 

There’s a ladybug clinging to the black of their running shorts when they stop at a crossing to wait for the lights to change. They reach down with gentle fingers until the vibrant insect climbs onto a clipped fingernail to make itself at home for the time being. 

They’re so distracted by its reluctance to leave the safety of their fingers that they don’t register the faintly out of control cyclist running the red light at the other end of the crossing. 

It’s only when the skidding of tyres and the smell of burning rubber meets their ears that Yaz looks up from their hand — where the ladybird flits off again — and jumps just enough out of the way not to greet the front tyre head-on. 

It doesn’t stop the bike from clipping their ankle and tripping them up, however. With a frustrated growl, they eye the ditsy woman hiding beneath a mop of messy blonde hair, a band tee and a pair of scruffy, ripped denim shorts in irritation. 

“Watch where you’re going, prick. And wear a bloody helmet!” 

“Sorry, miss,” the blonde snarks, gaze flitting over their form in open appreciation. It lingers at their midsection, where their running vest has risen to reveal a slip of toned muscle, then their equally toned thighs. “Won’t happen again.” 

The combination of the blonde’s confidence and the assuming address makes something in Yaz crack and splinter, and with a glare they hope is enough to silence her for oblivion, Yaz turns back to continue their run. “Dick.” 

Their first match of the season comes quickly, and in the blink of an eye, Saturday night becomes their present. 

Slotting their gloves onto their hands while Yaz bounces on the balls of their feet, red, knee-length shorts skimming their slim legs, Graham wipes down the sweat lacing their brow with a small towel. “You’ve got this, kid. There’s no point telling you the rules — you probably know them like the back of your hand by now. Just don’t make it personal, alright? And nothing below the belt.”

Behind the door, the small crowd cheers in response to a minute warning the host announces over the loudspeaker. 

Yaz’s bouncing steps increase and their heartbeat turns to thunder. “Got it, coach.”

“I have every faith in you, Yaz. Go out there and smash it and I’ll get the first round in this evening,” Graham jeers with a clap to a strong shoulder. “Now, wait for your name and I’ll see you in the ring.” 

Yaz nods, wringing their hands at their sides and glancing down to ensure their shoes are tied on properly. Grinding their teeth against their guard, they take a lungful of steady breaths until the curtain opens and their name graces the ears of everyone in the arena. 

That bit is always their favourite part. 

Their second favourite is the roar of the crowd when they jog out to the ring and take a leaping jump over the surrounding tape, landing with a flourish. While adrenaline surges through their veins with every breath and they stretch their arms above their head, they patiently await the appearance of their opponent. 

_ “In red, we have last year’s champion Yasmin Khan, and in blue, we have newbie Ash Smith! Everyone make some noise!” _

The crowd erupts with applause at the same time as Yaz freezes to the spot, jaw falling slack. 

Because Ash Smith — their opponent; their competition; the boxer they’re up against — is the same woman who had almost run them into the pavement on her bike only a few days prior. 

And whether it’s sure karma for the other boxer or a curse on Yaz’s part, this will not be a boring match. 

  
  



	2. baby, you could make it as the underdog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi folks! back again! hope u enjoy x
> 
> tw: discussion of injuries/blood/gender dysphoria

As soon as the bell tolls, the arena falls away and only their opponent remains. Her blonde hair — this time tucked away into a short ponytail at the back of her head — begs to be dishevelled by no one’s hand but their own. 

It’s Ash who launches the first attack, a slightly clumsy, nervous jerk of her fist which Yaz blocks without hesitation. Holding back a smirk to maintain their professionalism, Yaz takes the opportunity while Ash’s defence slackens to deliver a winding counterpunch to her gut. 

While Ash catches her breath back, Yaz bounces on their toes in wait for the next throw, red and white-gloved hands raised to their chin in readiness. 

“That all you got?” they taunt when Ash finally straightens up, a newer, more dangerous glint in their eye. This is where Yaz likes them.  _ Now _ , it’s a match. 

Ash’s next swing is blocked and Yaz grits their teeth as they plant a left hook against her jaw in return. 

Recovering quicker this time — likely down to the rush of adrenaline each hit pumps into her veins — Ash squares a jab against Yaz’s shoulder with a grunt. 

But rather than cause pain, it really just riles them up more. 

Two minutes in and with the first break announced, Yaz’s eyes barely stray from the blonde. Even while Graham jeers his encouragement while he dabs at their forehead, Yaz follows the journey of a water bottle to Ash’s lips and the bob of her throat which follows. 

“Yaz?” Graham’s voice in their ear recaptures their attention and they turn, grinding their guard between their teeth with a nod. “D’you two know each other? I can sense the tension like a pig in a butchers shop.” 

“She almost ran me over on her bike last week,” Yaz muffles through the plastic retainer encasing their teeth, turning their head to work the muscles at the back of their neck. “Bloody woman has it coming for her.” 

“Oi, Yaz,  _ no _ .” Graham pats their shoulder and offers a stern glare, his lips pulling tight. “What did I tell you not five minutes ago?”

“Don’t make it personal,” Yaz grumbles, suitably told. “Still — dunno how she’s here considering she has the balance of a baby deer.” 

“Apparently she’s one of the best. A last-minute winner, her coach says.” 

“Maybe till’ this point, yeah.” 

“That’s my girl. Go get ‘em.” 

Yaz blows out their cheeks and shakes their head, renewed irritation coursing through their veins. The outside world would be a much less unwelcome place if people could just read their mind. 

The next round begins; each of them a two-minute opportunity to gain the upper hand. And at the moment, Yaz is on their top form. 

Tapping their gloves together, they jump forward on their toes and back into position from their neutral corner. As soon as Ash approaches again, a smirk still dancing in her eyes despite her slow start, Yaz fixes her with a cold, competitive stare. “I’ll keep going easy on you if you like?” 

Ash springs forth, blue shorts loose around her lithe hips and thighs. Not that Yaz is looking, of course — and that’s probably why the blonde catches them with an uppercut to the jaw in seconds. 

“All talk and no action, Khan,” Ash gloats as she steps back, blue and white gloves raised in preparation. She dodges Yaz’s next lunge, light on her feet and energetic like a typically optimistic newbie. She almost reminds them of the newest addition to their weekly after-school group; youthful and fast and a little too big for their boots.

If Yaz were to train her up like one of their clients, they’d have to tame her zeal into brisk, precise movements first. Then, perhaps, she’d be more of a threat than an ungainly, clumsy enthusiast for the sport. 

Her taunting words are Ash’s comeuppance when Yaz sweeps forward to nail a string of combination moves on target for her stomach, side and jaw before peeling back to catch their breath. 

“Y’were saying?” Ash’s slightly bloodied grimace shouldn’t give Yaz such glee. When they bound towards her again, the blonde flinches. “Don’t mess with me, rookie.” 

The next break leaves Yaz perched on a throwaway stool in their corner while they gulp back half a bottle of water and take in Graham’s constructive criticisms. “Still winnin’?”

“As always,” Graham affirms with a proud grin, and suddenly Yaz can understand Ryan’s easy relationship with him. He’s the grandfather figure they’ve never known. “Just try to keep focused, alright? Don’t get distracted trying to rile her up.”

Nodding, Yaz lifts their gaze to seek out their opponent only to find her already watching from her corner. 

Ash raps her gloves together and narrows her eyes, talking in whispers to her own coach. When the middle-aged ginger woman makes a quip, Ash’s humoured scoff catches Yaz in a winding coil around their throat and tightens until they wither into the ropes behind them. Is she laughing at them?

Going by the way Ash’s gaze flits over their form when she sniggers again, it certainly seems so. 

_ Does she know?  _

_ Can she tell? _

Yaz doesn’t hold back when the next bout begins, catching a smirking Ash with another gloved fist to her stomach and the beginning of strong ribs. 

They think they can hear a crunch when Ash bends at the waist with a gasp, but that might just be wishful thinking. 

The next time Ash swings a fist their way, Yaz catches them in a clinch. Both arms curled around the blonde’s slim waist, Yaz's forehead drops against her shoulder and they pant against sweaty, creamy skin. She smells faintly of earl grey. 

Suddenly, Yaz detests earl grey and any scent remotely similar. 

“If y’wanted a hug, you only had to ask, babe,” Ash grunts, any attacks in mind blocked by Yaz’s secure hold. 

Not for long, though. With a groan disguised under their breath, Yaz throws her back in order to land a strong left hook to her shoulder before she can compose herself. “You talk too much.” 

They sidestep an encroaching gloved fist and launch at her jaw with renewed vigour, landing a hook against the prominent feature while Ash’s mouth is open and so jolting her back a handful of steps. The resultant  _ click _ of her jaw echoes in the arena seconds later, followed by the thump of the blonde’s form against the surrounding rope. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” they hear her gasp under her breath, raising a glove to her jaw and leaning heavily against the entrapment. 

Yaz turns their back to face the crowd, predicting an easy victory with a triumphant smirk and a pump of their fist. 

Until a surprisingly strong arm coils around their waist and drags them back into the centre of the ring. Spinning around, Yaz regrets letting their defences down in an instant. 

A flash of blue and white renders a sharp pain in their cheek and another in their stomach only a moment later. They’re too breathless to offer a response when Ash steps back, a reddened smudge already lining the curve of her jaw and sweat streaming from her temples to pool in the dip of her throat. 

Yaz barely collects themself together before barraging back towards her and perfecting a fatigued throw against her right eye.

They can predict the slow bloom of purple and blue against the surrounding skin in duplication of the woman’s brand new boxing gloves over the next few hours.

Yaz’s cheekbone is the next victim in a fast-paced, constant string of attacks and slow defences which leaves them backing up toward the rope and dodging breathlessly from each swing. 

They’re lifting their head for a lungful of air when their wall of protection slackens and a sudden, rapid punch to their nose and mouth leaves their bottom lip at the mercy of their mouthguard. While skin tears and their nose pulses with an oncoming flow of crimson, Yaz drops to the padded floor with a groan.

The coppery taste of blood assaults their tongue in seconds while the referee — a short-haired bloke with a strong northern accent and an affinity for leather jackets — crouches at their side to count evenly up to eight. 

He only manages to get to five before Yaz peels themself from the floor and wipes their elbow across their top lip. The action smears fresh flowing blood from their nose across their cheek and Ash crooks a brow, wetting the split lip which stands in replication of Yaz’s own. 

“Ready?” Ash rasps, left eye blinking against oncoming swelling. 

Yaz wrings their hands at their side quickly before raising them back in defence, pupils darting. They’re both on their last dregs of energy if their consistent clinching and waning bounces are anything to go by. “Ready for what?” 

The cushioned black floor masks their shout when Ash drives a gloved fist into their cheek and sends them down again, adding another round of bruising to the layer already gracing their angled cheekbone. A dull throb settles behind their eyes and they clutch at the back of their neck, dragging their knees to their chest with a gasp. 

Yaz hates falling still. Falling still leaves the door open to the purples, blues and reds painting their dark skin and the aches lining the very marrow of their bones. The room spins with the heaving breaths falling against their knees and they’re oblivious to the countdown the referee is chanting until the small gathering cheers in triumph. The bell communicating the conclusion of the match resonates through the material beneath their head and the confines of their skull. 

Not for the first time, Yaz wishes for the floor to simply swallow them up rather than surrender them to Ash’s smug face and gloating words. And not for the first time, either, Yaz decides they do not like the blonde at all. 

“Are you okay?” a voice from above rasps, followed by the brush of cool leather at their back. It doesn’t take much to decipher it as Ash even in their dazed state. 

Grunting, Yaz hauls themself up onto their feet and leans against the outer rope just to dodge out of her way and straighten up. Blood continues to dribble south in a stream from their nose but they pay it no mind. All they see is Ash’s faux concerned features and big green eyes and it’s enough to coil their stomach muscles in distaste. “Don’t touch me.” 

Ash backs up, thankfully, but then again it could simply be a ploy to make Yaz seem cold. “Alright, alright. Jeez.” 

Before Yaz can bite back again, the referee appears from thin air to conduct the winning result. 

When he raises Ash’s arm in a triumphant declaration, something inside Yaz jolts out of place and pools in the pit of their stomach like keys left in the pocket of a garment of clothing on a trip through the washing machine. They dare not look their coach’s way for fear of the pitiful disappointment gracing his frown. 

Perhaps Martha was right — perhaps they overdid their training enough to make their skills worse rather than better. 

Perhaps they can’t eternally keep on top after all. 

While Ash is scooped up in a squeezing hug by her lesser sweaty coach, Yaz slips between the ropes and heads for the changing rooms with their head ducked and pride diminished. 

They set the tap running a second before ducking their head under the spray and wiping rapidly at their blood-smudged features, already predicting the map of bruising from the edge of their collarbone to the rise of their cheekbone. 

After a much-needed shower in the adjoining cubicles, Yaz’s annoyance has wilted somewhat. They slip into a pair of jogging bottoms but pause when they catch sight of their moving figure in the mirror on the far wall. 

Turning to their side, Yaz scalps out a mental outline in the misted glass and lets their shoulders sag with a heavy sigh. 

In the same mirror, they spot an unrolled bandage peeking out of their open bag. 

After barely a moment’s thought, Yaz sweeps the material up and starts a slow, curious wind around their chest with enough room to breathe but also so that it settles securely when they tape it in place. 

A moment of admiration and glee is all they can manage before a knock sounds against the door and it eases open without hesitation. 

“Yaz?” Ryan calls in quiet concern, peeking his head around the side. “Everything alright —” 

In the same fashion as their best friend, Yaz freezes. 

“Mate, you can’t do that.”

All of a sudden, Yaz’s stomach lurches to their throat and they take a step back, shaking hands bunching into the material of their top. “What do you mean? I’m —” 

“It’s unsafe, Yaz. Bandages are — like — the  _ worst _ things to use if you’re binding — which — um — that’s what you’re doing, right?” 

Shocked to silence, Yaz simply nods, jaw slackening in a motion which newly aches. 

“There are sites online where you can find safe ones, believe me. Just — don’t do that, mate. It’s really dangerous.” 

“Oh, right — um — could you turn around for a sec?” 

“‘Course. Sorry.” 

“No, it’s okay.” Yaz peels the material away as though it’s physically burnt her, then settles for their sports bra with a faint sigh. “Thanks for telling me. That’s — it’s the first time I’ve tried.” 

Once their hoodie has been drawn over their head and settled in place, Yaz clears their throat. 

Ryan turns back with an empathetic smile, opening his arms in a warm enough gesture for Yaz to close the distance and slump against his solid chest with a grunt. “Yaz, is there something you want to—” 

“I think I’m non-binary,” Yaz admits aloud for the first time, in a muffled tone caught and enveloped by Ryan’s navy jumper. The confession comes with it a sudden sap in their energy and, closing their eyes, Yaz swallows down a swell of emotion only half successfully. 

Like the intercom in a crashing flight, Yaz’s brain chants at their muscles in preparation. 

_ Brace. Brace. Brace.  _

A trembling breath and a palm to their back later, Ryan speaks up. “That’s awesome, mate. I’m properly proud of you.” 

“You’re okay with it?”

“‘Course I am.” Ryan squeezes her shoulders before he pulls back, regarding them with genuine admiration. “Have you told anyone else?”

“Not yet.” Yaz shakes their head, anxiety re-swelling like a bruise agitated. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“That’s okay.” A pat to their elbow comes before Ryan nods to Yaz’s belongings. “Ready to go? Think grandad wants a word before we go.” 

Grimacing, Yaz replies, “Yeah, I thought he might.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve already told him to go easy. He were more concerned than anything, anyway.” At the door, Ryan pauses. “Oh! One thing — pronouns?”

Yaz falters with the strap of their bag, another surge of relief taking charge of their gut. They scratch the back of their neck and take a breath. “They and them, if that’s okay?”

“Cool! Now, c’mon, slowcoach. Not like you got your arse handed to you five minutes ago.” 

If only everyone was so lax. “Oh, piss off.” 

To the right of the ring as they approach, Graham claps his hands together in glee. The rest of the room is a sea of chatter and jeers and beer breath. “Good news, Yaz!” 

“Yeah?” Yaz prompts, shifting their bag onto the other shoulder when blue skin protests. “What’s that?”

“You’re going through to the semis! Your score beat the competitor from the other heat so you’ve taken her place,” Graham chimes with a ruffle of their damp hair and a delighted pat to their shoulder. 

However, he’s beaming a little too bright than normal, his eyes wide and begging not to question. 

“ _ Graham _ ,” Yaz draws the name out with their arms folded across their chest. “There’s a  _ but _ coming, isn’t there?” 

Chagrined, Graham grits his teeth together and averts his gaze, eyes flitting anywhere but at them. He rocks on his toes and blows out his cheeks. “Right. Uh — how do I put this —”

Ryan, nevertheless, is a secure presence at their side. Clapping an open palm playfully against his shoulder, he jolts the older man into action. “Spit it out, gramps,”

“So, I’ve been speaking to Ash’s coach, Donna, and she’s taking a break to get married and have her honeymoon,” he starts conversely, motioning to the redhead with a jerk of his thumb. “Lovely lady. She’s going to Morocco! Wonderful place, that. I’ve always wanted to take Grace there…”

“Graham.” Yaz catches his gaze when it returns to them in a silent form of pleading — and doesn’t back down.

“Anyway, yeah. So — uh — for the next month, approximately, you’ll be having training together with me.”

At the same time as their opponent cinches the cork out of a bottle of champagne at the other side of the room with a  _ bang _ and turns to look their way with one blue eye and a split lip, Yaz’s stomach fills with dread. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”


	3. no good alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the support so far guys!!! I'm really hoping this next chapter doesn't disappoint <3
> 
> TW: fire/implied death (yikes sorry guys this ain't a fun one)

“Oh,  _ mate,” _ Bill goads from her place at the communal table, catching Ash’s ankle when she passes by en route to the kettle. “What’s happened to your face? Did you have another bird ‘round last night that gets the hots for that kind of stuff?”

Already kitted out in her navy polo shirt and dark cargo trousers, Ash trips up with a grumble. She nudges her colleague’s outstretched leg with a booted foot and scoops up a jar of coffee from the shelf. “Had my first match, you weirdo.” 

And because she’s predicting a slow start to the day, Ash indulges her. “But yeah, I did, too. Winner’s luck and all.”

Bill’s devilish snigger is contagious. “Oh, yeah?” 

With a smirk, Ash turns back to face her, cheeks warming at the memory of lips pressed against her throat and a hand under her top. “Just a fumble.”

“You sly thing. Get her number?”

“Nah,” Ash answers, folding her arms and leaning against the counter. Her eye pulses with each blink but she counts every ache in her body as another victory. “Besides, I’d had a few.”

“You’re lucky we’ve not had any callouts yet then, mate. You makin’ coffee?”

“Yeah?”

“Be a babe and pour me one too?”

“Have your legs stopped working, Bill?” 

“Ask Heather. She’s the one who makes me weak in the knees.” 

“ _ God _ , you’re gross.” 

Bill heaves herself out of her usual chair and sets her magazine aside to join the blonde. “Just ‘cause  _ you _ won’t settle down.” 

“Settling down is for wimps. Do you  _ know _ how intelligent and beautiful women are? Why would I want to settle?” Ash voices, spooning eight cubes of sugar in a row into the pool of beige in her mug and purposefully ignoring Bill’s grimace. 

“As an intelligent and beautiful woman, yes.” 

“Surprised you still fit into the fire engine with the size of that ego.” 

“Was she fit?” Bill pipes up ten minutes later, feet propped up against the table while Ash peers out of the window. The rest of their four-person crew, Rose and Jack, are changing for their shift. As usual, Bill and Ash are the early birds of the group. 

Ash draws her mug from her lips and knits her brow. “Who?” 

“The bird who gave you a black eye.”

Huh. 

When Ash thinks back through visions of aching limbs and tired, heaving breaths to their dark-skinned opponent, she is confused by the way her cheeks warm and goosebumps rise to life in her arms. 

Eventually, she blames it on the belated embarrassment left over from their near-collision only a short time earlier. “Didn’t really stop to chat, to be honest. They were pretty determined, though. I’m surprised I managed to secure a win.”

“Just  _ pretty determined _ ? Not  _ they were ripped as fuck _ or  _ bet they’re amazing with their hands _ ?” Bill pries, studying her with an undecipherable expression.

But before Ash jumps in with a sheepish comment in defence, Jack becomes their saving grace. “Who’s amazing with their hands?” 

“Me, mate,” Ash crows, stealing a custard cream from the polka-dotted tin beside the kettle and dipping it into her coffee. “Nothing new there.” 

* * *

They’re playing a heated round of  _ go fish  _ with a pack of cards when the drill sounds and the red light above the door begins to pulse with life. 

Ash is the first to head for the phone when it rings, bouncing on her feet with a rush of adrenaline. While her crew gathers at the entrance to the garage, she swipes a pen up in readiness to scrawl any vital information on the inside of her palm. “Sheffield Hallam Fire Brigade receiving, this is crew manager Ash Smith. Details of the incident, please?” 

_ “House fire on Northumberland Drive, ten minutes from the station. Mother and child still inside. This has been upgraded to a major incident.”  _

“Receiving loud and clear. We’ll be there as quick as we can. Buzz us if there are any updates in the meantime” Ash finishes, giving the rest of the group the go-ahead. “Housefire. Mother and child still inside. ETA ten minutes, but I reckon we can get there in eight. Let’s go.”

“ _ Shit _ ,” she hears Rose — the newest of their team — murmur under her breath on the way down and ensures to brush a hand against her shoulder before they drag their weighty high-visibility gear on. 

“It’s alright to be nervous,” she murmurs in reassurance, hopping on one foot to haul her protective bottoms up her legs. “Just try and keep calm, alright? I’ll assess the scene when we get there and let you know what to do, but the main mission is to get them out of that house. Don’t let your nerves get to you — just tune in to your instructions and focus on those for the time being. Nothing else.”

Ash tucks her yellow helmet under her arm on the way to the fire engine named TARDIS due to the individual code printed on the driver’s side door and its matching registration number. Once she’s climbed inside and settled in the passenger seat beside Bill, she takes a glance over her shoulder to give Rose a double thumbs up. “You’ve trained for this, mate. You’re brilliant.” Then, in a more serious tone, “Are we all ready, fam?”

“Please stop saying that,” Bill voices with a grimace, pulling out from the station and onto the streets of Sheffield.

“So long as I can put the lights and siren on?” 

“ _ Fine _ .”

It’s only when the group are sitting still in the somewhat quiet of the cab that the tension seeps in through the locks on the doors and Ash’s open window and the dreadful realisation sinks to the pit of her stomach. An infant and their mother, trapped in an upstairs room, losing seconds while they’re gaining traction on the streets. 

But Ash doesn’t even bare herself to the idea of failure. Not while they’re on the way with one mission only — the exact opposite. 

* * *

Smoke plumes from each window of the two-storey detached home when the fire engine pulls up and, immediately, Ash allocates Rose and Jack the job of unfastening and hooking up the large hose. 

“The top right window seems to be where it’s most prominent. The witnesses say that’s where the fire started. Keep it constant, guys. Bill, you’re with me,” Ash directs, grabbing her helmet and securing it over her tied hair. “I need you to keep watch while I head inside. Stay here.”

“Wait — mate, the police said it were close to collapse.”

“And you expect me to stand back and let them die in there? Come on, Bill.” Ash wrings her hands at her sides and double-checks her visor before heading up the paved pathway towards the door. “Stay put. Keep watch. I’ll stay in contact over the radio.”

“Ash, you can’t just—” 

Ash holds her breath as she strides in through a wall of thick smoke, a wet flannel pressed over her nose and mouth. There’s a staircase to her left which she takes two at a time in a jog to the top. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

The room to her right is home to the thickest of the flames, which Ash notes in the walkie talkie connected to the breast pocket of her jacket. Heading through the smoky dusk of the corridor, she coughs against converging fumes and ploughs on. 

“S’there anyone in here? I’m from the fire brigade. I’m here —” another heaving cough jolts her rib cage and puts her lungs to the test. “— to help. Can you hear me?” 

The next room along — decorated in rainbows and clouds and every shade of blue and yellow imaginable— is where Ash spots two silhouettes through the building smoke. Switching on her torch, she toes past the doorway and further into the children’s bedroom, aware of the protesting floorboards at her feet and the unopened window in the corner she ought to release. 

Two steps from the cot, a breathless cough meets her ears and prises at her ribs and sends hope surging towards her most vital organ. “Hello? Where are you? Can you hear me?”

“Hello?” a rasping voice chokes out from the corner of the room and instantly, Ash rushes over. 

When she reaches out, she comes in contact with an adult’s arm encircling a smaller form bundled in blankets and her heart clenches anew. Clearing her throat while smoke singes at her tear ducts, she crouches to seek out the woman’s shoulders. “I’m Ash, from Sheffield fire brigade. We need to get you out of here. Can you walk?” 

“My baby,” the woman sobs, though it comes out more like a choking breath. “Save her first.”

“No, no, definitely not, sweetheart. You’re both coming with me. Come on, take my arm.” 

Just as the baby — only six months old at most— begins to cry out, the singed bedroom door fissures and pitches off its hinges with a crash. The fire, which began in the room opposite, as far as she can tell, whips up in the corridor with brute force. 

The woman whimpers out another broken exhale and Ash forces herself to think fast. 

Spying a wooden child’s stool in the corner, she scoops it up and shouts for the woman to duck before sending it barrelling through the glass panels. 

While it does little to clear the room of clouding smoke, it at least invites potentially life-saving air into the room. 

Over the radio attached to her jacket comes the warning tone of Bill’s voice.

_“Ash, you need to get them out of there. The ceiling is about to give and the stairs are blocking up. The wind is sending the spray off course._ ** _Get_** **_out_**.”

Ash curses under her breath but wills herself to stay calm. “Come on, grab my arm. We’re getting you out.” 

“Take her, I’ll stick with you,” the woman insists, lifting the cradled infant with weakening arms before heaving over with another coughing fit. “Please.”

With the brunette’s arm around her elbow, Ash secures her hold on the baby with her free hand and draws them forward. The fire crackles in the hallway and her ears start to ring with lack of clear oxygen. She clears her throat in a bid for more. “You’re doing really well. Come on.” 

The stairs are situated at the end of the corridor and, kicking a flaming corner of the wine red carpet to stamp out a smaller fire, she leads the way through. “Don’t breathe it in if you can until we reach the stairs, okay?” 

The solid weight against her arm is her only answer in the heavy fog of burning fabric and melting wallpaper. “We’re almost there.”

The woman is a heavy pressure against her until she is not. 

The air is hot and dense with smoke until a door opens.

The tiny infant is loud in her ears until she is not. 

The stairs are creaking and old until they no longer preside between the floors. 

Ash only just reaches the front door when the staircase caves in alongside a section of the ceiling above. The baby is silent in her arms and she’s robotic in the fashion that she lays her down in the grass garden out front and presses two fingers against her pulse. 

She doesn’t wait for the paramedics and a sobbing father rush forward before starting CPR through laboured breaths. 

A lungful of clean, dizzying air later, she ducks her head in exchange with the infant. 

Two minutes later, she’s never been so grateful to hear the high-pitched tone of a child’s cry. 

It’s only then, when the baby girl is enveloped in her father’s embrace, that she chances a look around. “She’s okay! I got you both — where’s —” 

Bill’s haunted features catch her eye and Ash turns back to the torched remains of the family home with a slackened jaw. “No.”

“I’m sorry, mate,” Bill offers in sympathy as she approaches, a hand at her shoulder where only five minutes earlier the brunette had clung on. “The stairs — the stairs got her.”

“Is she still in there?” Ash implores through a rasping inhale, reading the softening of Bill’s pupils as clear as day. 

At the same time as she stands to turn for the house, Bill hooks an arm around her waist to draw her back. She struggles against her hold even while her lungs protest and her limbs turn to lead. “It’s too dangerous, Ash. Even for you. The second floor’s gone.” 

The petite body of the young brunette is still beneath the privacy of a white sheet when they draw her from the wreckage twenty minutes later. 

Mutedly, Ash slumps back against the truck and balls her hands into fists at her sides. Half-crescents line the insides of her palms when in grief, the man she deems her husband sobs into the fine hairs dusting his daughter’s head. 

“I didn’t even know her name,” she croaks out when Bill approaches an unknown length of time later. 

“You saved her child.”

“She’ll grow up without a mother.”

“She’ll  _ grow up _ , Ash. All thanks to you.” 

She doesn’t feel the weight of Bill’s arms around her until she tears her gaze away from the haunting home, and even then, she deems herself undeserving of her comfort. 

Luckily, barring a curious feline stuck in the branches of a birch tree and an incident involving a teenager and a set of rusty iron railings in which to stick his head through, the rest of the day passes by with enough distractions to keep Ash on her toes. 

They’re clearing up and finishing off their paperwork for the day when Rose passes with a sympathetic palm to her shoulder and it all comes rushing back. 

As though sensing her drifting attention, Jack hops up onto the table in front of her and waggles his brows. “We were thinking of heading out for a drink once we’ve finished up. You in?” 

“Don’t think there’s much to celebrate, mate,” Ash answers truthfully, leaning back in her chair and twirling a pen between her fingers. “Besides, I’ve got training tonight.”

“Well, the offer’s there if you change your mind,” Jack supplies. 

Ash hates the pity taking centrepiece behind his eyes, so she elects to train her gaze back towards her screen. She doesn’t offer the reply he’s hovering in hopes for but grants him a faint nod if only to get him to leave her be. 

* * *

Her apartment is quiet but light when she returns home from work but the instant the sun dips below the horizon and bathes it in a warm orange glow akin to licking flames, she’s desperate to leave again. 

_ Rose Tyler [6:07PM]: thanks for the support today ash, but it goes both ways - if you want to talk i’m here <3 you saved a life today, take it easy x _

She figures turning up early to training wouldn’t be a bad idea if it means she doesn’t have to be alone in her apartment for the next hour. So, after changing hastily into a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, Ash grabs her kit bag on the way out and locks the blue door of number thirteen behind her. 

There’s already two people occupying the gym when she opens the door to step inside. She instantly recognises them as Graham, her temporary coach, and her most recent opponent, Yaz. They’re too busy in discussion to notice her presence at first. 

“Apparently it all started in the bedroom but it spread like wildfire. They saved the kid, though. One of the firefighters stormed straight in there, no thought for themselves. I wish I could’ve seen their face but they were wearing a helmet. I’d have given them a right ol’ pat on the back for that,” Graham propositions, shaking his head in something close to admiration.

Something inside her shudders at the harsh reminder where she was desperately seeking distraction, but she can’t keep herself from listening in. 

“I don’t think I could never do something like that — there really are some heroes out there, huh?” she hears Yaz admit, and a small, selfish part of her cherishes the praise if only for a minute or so. Yaz — the person who seemingly already dislikes her for a simple accident and a snarky remark — indirectly complimenting her? Whatever ego she does have swells at the clear evidence. 

“You’re a strong woman, Yaz. I wouldn’t doubt your skills.”

A flinch passes over the dark-haired woman’s features and Ash pinches her brows together for a moment before something clicks into place. Oh. She’ll have to keep that in mind.

As she pads further into the room, the door behind her creaks and Yaz turns. When they level their gazes, Ash is so immensely grateful not to find pity or guilt shrouding their vision that she doesn’t register the last part of their conversation. 

Perhaps this is just what she needed after all.


	4. even the sweetest plum (has only got so long)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi guys!!! hope ur all staying safe x
> 
> this chapter is actually my least favourite of anything i've written ever so im sorry if its ooc please dont come after me x 
> 
> if its possible, enjoy !!!
> 
> TW: discussions of gender/implied dysphoria

Yaz’s hair and clothes are sodden from a spontaneous downpour when they slip past the door to their flat and close it with a wheeze and a click behind them. With an afternoon of feisty eleven and twelve-year-olds taming their tempers into gloved fists under their belt, all they want to do is to relax before their own training session is scheduled. 

In their hallway, below a rectangular mirror gifted as a housewarming present by Najia, sits a handful of small boxes and a large duffel bag. 

However, when dread clouds in their chest and spits a fork of lightning to their gut, they don’t flinch quite the way they should. 

In fact, they barely react at all. 

The tips of their fingers tingle with pins and needles and spread numbness up to the ack of their throat. 

A set of booted footsteps in the kitchen draws their attention away from the benchmark of their next failure and, taking a breath, Yaz follows the sound to its source. 

The echo of Yaz’s keys settling on the counter is what makes Martha register their appearance. With a small smile which no longer stands as a magnet for Yaz’s attraction, their lost flame straightens up. “Hi.”

“Hey,” is all Yaz can muster, shoving their hands into the pockets of their still soaked hoodie and rocking on their toes. One by one, their walls rebuild. They’ve been doing so since Martha’s first doubts. 

The woman in question raises a brow at the dampened nature of Yaz’s clothing and she looks like she wants to move closer. Her twitching fingers only expose her urge further. 

Yaz’s chest clenches. They can’t tell if it’s because they want Martha’s unending comfort or to turn for the door and start running. 

They’ve always been better at running. 

Martha’s voice puts an end to their inner conflict. It’s one of the only sounds which can. “How was work?” 

“Uh— not too bad. Had to reign in some of the youngsters when they carried on scuffling without their gloves on. Also, kids ask the  _ weirdest _ questions.”

_ Stalling. Stalling. Stalling. _

“What about you?” Yaz prompts. 

Martha edges forward, but she does so towards the door rather than Yaz. 

Yaz braces themself. 

“The usual, y’know,” Martha starts, dropping her gaze to the toes of her boots and toying with the lapel of their blazer. “Yaz, listen —” 

Scratching at the back of their neck, Yaz puffs out their chest and steels themself. Their free hand clenches into a fist at their side, white knuckles facing the linoleum floor. “You don’t have to explain yourself, babe. It’s okay.”

In response to the pet name or the sudden tension in Yaz’s shoulders, Martha wilts ever so slightly, breathing a sigh through her nose. 

“Look, maybe — maybe we just need a break? Just some time for us to get our heads back on straight and to figure out what we really want,” Martha supplies with an aura of hope Yaz shrinks under. “Maybe we’re wrong; maybe there’s still something there. We just need time.”

“Yeah, that could work,” Yaz supplies. They lift their gaze at the same time as Martha hones in on their expression in the search for genuineness. 

It’s just a shame their facade is so well-constructed. 

She’s within touching distance. Yaz takes advantage of it with a light grip on her wrist and doe eyes she knows she can’t resist. “I think you’re right.”

Their kiss is all heat and the desperation to repair; like duct tape over a gaping crack in a bedroom wall. In order to succeed, they are in need of new components. 

Together, they simply prolong eventual destruction. 

It doesn’t mean Yaz is keen to pull away. With smooth maneuvring and a keen need to drag out their last contact, they press Martha back into the kitchen counter and kiss her breathless. They save her taste to memory and store it at the forefront of their senses in a painful reminder. 

By the time they pull away for breath, Yaz’s hand spans the giving flesh beneath Martha’s shirt and Matha’s chest is heaving. 

Despite how much both of them want to give in — to throw common sense into a moving fan and bury their problems in the apexes of thighs and open mouths — Yaz allows Martha to peel away without argument. 

With a kiss to the corner of their lips and a shaky sigh, Martha cups their cheek in a fashion Yaz shies away from. 

It makes them feel fragile. 

She taps their temple with her index and frowns in their peripherals when Yaz swallows, averting their gaze to their feet. “I wish you’d tell me what’s going on up there.” 

Their trainers feel more like enclosed lakes and, scrunching their nose up in distaste, Yaz chooses them as their focus. “I’m fine.” 

Martha’s silence begs for Yaz’s reaction and, shifting on their feet, they level their gazes. 

Her lips move and she takes a breath as though to speak, but the pleading behind Yaz’s eyes must stop her short. 

In favour of disputing Yaz’s lie, Martha slips her rucksack over her shoulder and leads the way to the door. 

Yaz hefts her duffel bag and a box into their arms before Martha has the chance, heat warming their cheeks when Martha’s gaze sinks to their straining biceps. “Let me,” they insist. “Just grab the door for me, babe.” 

Holding the door open, Martha lugs the last box into her arms once Yaz is outside and follows behind them. “Thanks.” 

The clouds are heavy with rainfall once more when Yaz sets the box down in the boot of Martha’s car, followed by her heavy bag. They step aside while she adds another storage box of possessions and linger beside the silver Audi when she’s done, hands tucked deep into their pockets. 

Martha closes the boot and pads around to the driver’s side door. She leans against it and offers a polite smile — the same coquettish smile she’d greeted them with amidst a bustling bar three years prior. 

Yaz sighs wistfully with the memory, then suddenly glance between the car and Martha in concern. 

“So — uh — wait. Do you have somewhere to stay?” they query, folding their arms and setting their expression. The last thing they want is to make Martha feel so unwelcome she has no option but to leave despite having nowhere to go. 

They might be distracted lately, but they still care. 

Martha was their first girlfriend, after all. 

“I’m going to stay with Tish until I can move into my new place. It shouldn’t take long — I’ve got it all planned out.”

She seems prepared. 

Yaz’s heart starts its freefall and they nod at the gum-littered paving stones beneath their feet before raising their head to the orange streetlights. “Right. Yeah. That’s good. Shouldn’t have doubted you.”

“Yaz?” Martha interrupts their train of thought before it has a chance to fester. 

Desperately training the hurt from their voice, Yaz swallows back the lump in their throat and dismisses it into the nether. “Yeah?”

“Now I’m not going to be here — “

“Makes it sound like it’s terminal, babe.”

“Yaz, listen to me. I’m being serious.” 

Yaz clears their throat, fighting a swell of laughter in their gut — is this what their life has come to? Being chided like a disruptive child at the back of assembly? 

They never were very well-behaved in school. 

Maybe this is their karma?

“Yaz, now I’m not going to be here to nag you, can you do me a favour?”

Scuffing their toes against the edge of the pavement, Yaz shrugs their shoulders. “Sure. What is it?”

Martha appears to brace herself before her request, anxiety lacing her pupils and the downward curl of her lips. “When you’re ready, can you please talk to someone? It doesn’t have to be me. Just — just talk to  _ someone _ about whatever it is that’s eating at you.” 

Yaz’s response comes as easy as breathing. “I’m fine, babe. Honestly.”

“Alright, fine. I’m not starting an argument with you again. I’m just saying something I hope will stick — and one day you might even thank me for it,” Martha announces with familiar persistence.

They shrink under her stare and nudge a stone into the drain beside the pavement, watching it tumble and  _ clink _ against the metal. 

“Thanks,” Yaz murmurs, not knowing what for. 

When Martha taps their forearm, it burns through to their skin like bubbling acid.

“Don’t be a stranger, okay?” 

Yaz unravels their defences just in time to catch her hand and slip their fingers between the gaps in her own. It burns delectably, but not as much as their throat. “I love you.”

Martha’s gasp is sharp and pained, her eyes glossy. She laughs, but it’s not the happy kind. “I don’t think you do. Save your words, babe. You can’t throw things like that about.” 

Yaz can’t argue with that. Not even if they wanted to. 

They drop their hand and shove it right back into their damp pocket, breathing a shaky exhale through their nose. “Sorry.” 

Above, the heavens open to curse yet another bad decision. Yaz doesn’t bother with the perfectly helpful hood of their jumper. 

They don’t need help. 

“See you around, Yaz.” 

“Bye, Martha,” they croak. 

Yaz drops their chin to their chest and steps back. 

A car door opens, then closes shut.

All the while, the crease of their nose dampens and salty tears encroach their lips. They taste like distrust; like stagnant water and sour milk. 

Disguised by the rain, they swallow the rest back if only to avoid a lingering aftertaste. By the time they next glance up from their trainers, the silver car has gone. 

Their flat feels like foreign terrain when Yaz ambles back inside, soaked through to the skin. 

Closing the door after them, they slump back against its surface and sink to the floor with a groan sure to alert their presence to their neighbours. 

They manage to strip down to their boxers and a t-shirt before slinking into a steaming shower twenty minutes later, half-clothed and uncaring. 

* * *

_ yaz [5:35PM]: will you be there this evening ?? _

_ ryan [5:37PM]: yeah sure gotta be there if u and ash go for each others throats. U ok mate? _

_ yaz [5:37PM]: ill tell u when i get there. Mind if i come a bit early?  _

_ ryan [5:39PM]: course. gramps is already getting ready so we’ll be there soon anyways. Sure ur ok? _

_ yaz [5:39PM]: yes mum _

_ yaz [6:01PM]: ill be there in 30  _

_ ryan [6:01PM]: gross see u soon mate  _

_ yaz [6:01PM]: see u _

* * *

Their Uber driver is thankfully the polite and quiet type when Yaz slips inside and offers up the address to Sheffield’s prime boxing club. 

They usually stop for a pint next door after training with Graham and Ryan, so they didn’t want to risk leaving their prized motorcycle in the parking lot outside the sports centre overnight if their urge to drown in their sorrows is anything to go by. 

The journey is a fifteen-minute affair and it slips past in the blink of an eye. 

That doesn’t stop the consistent bounce of their knee and the way their clipped nails engrave their palms with jagged canals. 

Ryan loiters in the foyer when they jog inside a short time later to escape the rain. Ringing out the ends of their hair, Yaz shivers when a droplet seeps down the back of their neck and past their hoodie to trickle down their spine.

“Gross out there, ain’t it?” Ryan quips, jogging over. “Gramps is just setting up. Everything okay?”

“Changing rooms,” Yaz supplies in response, nodding towards the blue door to the left of the foyer. They hitch their bag higher over their shoulder and lead the way when Ryan nods in mild concern. 

The cartoon tacked to the door wearing a dress and the placard just below it mocks them without remorse. 

“Easy, mate,” they hear from behind when they sweep inside and drop their kit bag down on a weathered wooden bench with a  _ thump _ . 

After pacing between the two lines of benches either end of the room, Yaz ends up leaning against the white-tiled wall beside the showers. 

“Yaz —” 

“Martha’s gone,” Yaz announces at the same time as they fold their arms and click their jaw in stubborn repression of the weight on their chest. “She packed up her things and left just as I got back from work.” 

They can all but hear the pitiful downturn of Ryan’s mouth and the way he drops his shoulders, approaching as though Yaz is a skittish fawn. “Aw, man. I’m sorry, Yaz.” 

Yaz nods in a jerky movement. They duck their head and eye the toes of their scuffed trainers, then a bruise painting their calf from the misjudged kick of an eleven year old. 

All of a sudden, they don’t quite know what to do with themselves, fingers twisting in the fabric of their burgundy hoodie as they straighten up to rock on their toes. “Yeah. S’weird. You don’t notice how quiet it is in the flat until you’re the only one there. And it’s only been an hour.”

Ryan stops two footfalls before them, baring a sympathetic frown. 

“Come here, mate,” he sighs, opening a strong arm in welcome invitation Yaz can’t find it in themself to deny. 

Slinking forward, Yaz embraces the best friend they consider a sibling with zeal. It’s only as they hook their chin over his shoulder and sigh through a comforting squeeze that they realise just how much they might’ve needed it. 

Not that they aren’t perfectly capable of finding a release, a comfort or a distraction in anything else. 

It’s just nice to indulge, sometimes. 

“Maybe you should get — like — a cat. Or a goldfish,” Ryan shrugs against them, concluding the hug with a pat to their back. “Ooh — maybe a snake? That’ll get all the ladies.” 

“I’d like to think I don’t need an exotic pet for people to find me attractive, mate,” Yaz jibes, mood already lifting in their best friend’s presence. They nudge his shoulder to manoeuvre him out of the way and turn back to their bag to draw their training kit free. “Or are you trying to say something?”

“ _ Yaz _ ,” Ryan groans, rolling his eyes. “You’re handsome as anything. You’ll be  _ swimming _ in it as soon as you put yourself out there again. Whenever you’re ready, that is.” 

Yaz couldn’t recall the rest of the sentence bar Ryan’s honest compliment. 

Jaw slack, Yaz turns with flaming cheeks. 

“You — uh— you think I’m handsome?”

“Going deaf in your old age, Yaz?” Ryan quips, reaching out to ruffle their still damp hair and earn a groan of irritation. “‘Course you are, mate. Now, take this,” Suddenly, there’s a plastic bag in his hands, thrust their way. “And get changed. I’ll see you in the gym.” 

Before Yaz can question his parting gift, the door swings shut in the wake of a suspicious smirk and they roll their eyes. 

Thanks to their busy schedule and regular training sessions, Yaz hasn’t had the time to indulge in that which eases the weight of the cement still clinging to their chest. 

So, when they open the package to find out what’s hidden within, their throat clogs up and their gasp echoes in the empty changing room. 

They’ve never drawn their hoodie and t-shirt over their head so quickly as they do at the prospect before them. 

In the mirror tacked to the far wall, Yaz’s lips part in a silent  _ o _ . 

Secure but comfortable, a plain black binder wraps around their chest and — despite its restrictive form — chips another layer of cement away. They can’t help their brimming smile when they turn to their side and follow the line of their figure in secret glee. 

By the time they’ve changed into a pair of loose red shorts and an even looser vest, Ryan and Graham are in full discussion inside the gym. They take one last look on the way out, admiring the sudden smoothness to their chest, before jogging inside with a barely concealed grin on their face and their gloves in hand.

Ryan turns at the sound of footsteps, offering up a cheeky smile which draws out Yaz’s own.

Stepping aside from his grandad to have a more private conversation between them, he lifts his brows and clears his throat. “Uh — so — does it — is it alright? Is it okay? Or did I overstep?” 

Yaz swallows back a shaky breath and swings their tied gloves into his side to hold back any kind of softness they might otherwise display. 

A piece of fabric shouldn’t have so much power. 

“You didn’t overstep,” Yaz answers in earnest, ducking their head when Ryan tries to seek out their touched smile. “It’s perfect, mate. You really didn’t have to do that.” 

Ryan nudges them right back, then ruffles their perfectly plaited hair. “Y’know, you could just say thanks. I promise I won’t tell anyone you’re actually a big softie under all that.” 

“Watch what you’re saying, Ryan. I’ve been Sheffield’s champion boxer for three years running.”

“Really, mate? Never heard that one before.”

“Piss off,” Yaz groans, swinging their gloves over their shoulder so they can begin wrapping their hands. “Thanks, though.”

“No problem. Just try not to murder the newbie, alright?”

“Can’t make any promises.” 

“Coming for drinks afterwards?” Ryan quips as they turn to join Graham beside the ring. “Been a while since you came along. Might be nice to let loose a bit, y’know.”

Yaz instinctively twists their lips into a negative response. 

That is until they think to the empty flat waiting for them and their equally cold and vacant bed. With no one waiting for them, their call to home no longer wields any power. 

“Sure,” Yaz supplies instead. 

* * *

“Did you hear about the fire across the road today?” Graham starts when Yaz jogs over, a stopwatch hanging beside the lanyard around his neck the only hint they need to know that this will be a gruelling session. 

“Not really. Had a busy day today,” they answer.

“Apparently it all started in the bedroom but it spread like wildfire. They saved the kid, though. One of the firefighters stormed straight in there; no thought for themselves. I wish I could’ve seen their face but they were wearing a helmet. I’d have given them a right ol’ pat on the back for that,” Graham reels, blowing out his cheeks. There’s a skipping rope in his hand which he works to untangle while he chats. 

“I don’t think I could never do something like that,” Yaz admits in earnest, taking a moment to eye up the circuit Graham has half completed in preparation. The rest of their thoughts hone in on the poor family just across the way. “There really are some heroes out there, huh?” 

They’re so immersed in predicting their workout that Graham’s words barely hit home. “You’re a strong woman, Yaz. I wouldn’t doubt your skills.”

But when they do, Yaz can’t withhold their flinch. 

Before they have a chance to seek Ryan out at the edge of the gym just for some reassurance, the weathered door creaks open and announces Ash to the room. 

Yaz meets her gaze for the first time since their match with narrowed brows and barely quelled irritation. 

With a cheery “hiya”, Ash pads over in a pair of thigh-hugging running shorts and a neon yellow tank top. She doesn’t stop moving even as she comes to a stop before them both, bouncing on her toes in anticipation. “How’s it going, Graham? Thanks for havin’ me. Can’t believe Donna’s pied me off like that just to get married,” she greets in good nature, swapping grins with Yaz’s coach. “I’m hurt.”

“It’s good to have you around for a bit, Ash.” Graham claps a hand to her shoulder and chuckles. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to offend you by it.”

“She said you’re going to make me work the hardest I’ve ever done. Was she having me on, or should I have pre-booked an ambulance?” 

A petty voice in Yaz’s head argues that such things are impossible. Another voice works to reel back their annoyance and inform them of Ash’s sense of humour. They curl their fingers into their loose tank top and drop their gaze until Graham recaptures their attention.

“Oh, I don’t know. What d’you think, Yaz? Do I work you too hard?” 

Lifting their head to meet Ash’s curious eyes, Yaz shrugs their shoulders before crossing their arms. Clenching fingers work their biceps and Ash’s gaze dips to follow the movement in a quick flit of hungry motion. “Don’t think there’s such a thing as working too hard, Graham.”

“That’s the correct answer. Right, then. Today, we’re going to be —” 

“Oi, Gramps. Can I talk to you for a minute?” Ryan interrupts from the other side of the gym, motioning over his shoulder in suggestion.

Rolling his eyes in good nature, Graham backs up. “Alright, get on with some stretches and warm up those muscles while I take care of this. Yaz, you know the score.” 

With a curt nod, Yaz begins their usual routine. They start at their shoulders, rolling and raising them in a series of loosening motions. 

They falter when Ash takes a breath only to cough hoarsely on her exhale. She swipes a water bottle from her bag and takes a slow swig, and only then does Yaz notice the exhaustion lining the bags under her eyes and the dimness to her previously curious, puppy-like pupils. 

All it takes is Ash’s gaze on theirs to snap them out of it —  _ it _ being something indecipherable and frankly a little alarming. 

“Y’know, if you’re unwell, you really shouldn’t be here,” Yaz announces. They lift an arm above their head and hook the other around it to stretch the stiff muscle. 

If Ash spots the lightning bolt scar on their shoulder as it’s raised, she doesn’t say anything. 

In return, Yaz refuses to let their gaze linger on a jagged line along Ash’s waistband when she leans back to work her back muscles, bottle settled at her feet.

Ash clears her throat and straightens up, suddenly defensive. “I’m not ill.” 

Hands raised, palms bared, Yaz takes a step back. “Just sayin’. I don’t fancy catching anything before this next competition.”

When Ash rolls her eyes, Yaz parts their lips with a jibe ready on their tongue. 

Graham’s reappearance is the only thing that stops them. 

* * *

The gym has been split into a circuit of different exercises. In each section sits a different apparatus, whether it be a skipping rope, a pair of light weights, a yoga mat or Yaz’s personal favourite; a weathered blue and red punching bag. 

Yaz is on their sixth round of the hall, a skipping rope in hand, when they spot Ash stepping aside to dive into her rucksack. 

Drawing free a custard cream, Ash takes a bite and bounces on her toes. 

Resisting the urge to groan, Yaz halts their plastic skipping rope and turns her way. “Are you eating a biscuit?”

“Yeah?” Through half a mouthful, Ash glances up and pinches her brows. There’s sweat clinging to her neck and chest and a sheen along her forehead. Yaz assumes they’re just the same. “Wait — does Graham not let you eat for a whole two hours?”

“Uh — no. Why would we need to eat —”

“Oh, mate. I can’t stand on my feet for two hours without a snack break. Want one? I’ve got plenty.” Ash holds out the opened packet, crumbs dusting the corners of her mouth and tumbling down to their vest. 

Rolling their eyes, Yaz submerges themself back into their circuit training in favour of replying. 

She must be doing this on purpose to get Yaz off their game, surely?

“Suit yourself,” they hear her quip just before she rejoins the session. 

Even more frustratingly, Ash catches up with Yaz in no time. Her lithe figure and boyish curves work fast and efficiently until suddenly, Yaz is the one holding them back. 

Reluctantly allowing Ash to pass in front of them, Yaz scoffs, “You’ve got crumbs all over your top.” 

“My eyes are up here, mate.” 

Distracted, Yaz doesn’t have time to brace before the punchbag they’ve been mutilating swings back into their form. 

Their cheeks burn as hot as wildfire when Ash snickers just ahead. 

* * *

“I’ll go first,” Yaz decides, wiping a dribble of sweat from their temple and fixing their gloves on. Opposite them, Graham helps Ash into a pair of boxing pads, their flat surface an easy target for Yaz’s practised punches. 

“Now, Yaz. Remember — Ash is  _ not  _ a punchbag. Nothing below the belt or above the shoulders. Just aim for the pads, alright?”

“Gotcha.”

“Alright, show me what you’ve got, kid.” 

After rolling their shoulders and clicking their neck, Yaz rises up on their toes and bounces on their feet. It helps to propel them forwards when Ash raises a gloved hand and, with ease, they nail their target. 

By the way Ash stumbles back slightly, it’s clear she wasn’t expecting Yaz to go so hard right off the bat. 

That doesn’t stop Yaz. 

If anything, it encourages them more. 

In a flurry of left hooks and breathy grunts on Yaz’s behalf, Ash backs further and further into the surrounding ropes. 

She’s teetering on the edge of falling back when Yaz finally eases off, sweat pooling at the back of their neck beneath their braid and obscuring their vision. 

Taking pity, they allow Ash to steady herself and recompose, her chest heaving with the effort. 

“If you spread your legs more, you can avoid that,” Yaz remarks breathlessly, blowing a flyaway hair from their eyes and catching their breath. 

“Spread my — but then I’d fall over?”

Narrowing their brows in bemusement, Yaz pads forward, feet cushioned. “No, I mean — look. Let me show you.”

“Arms out,” Yaz instructs, stepping up behind her. 

Ash raises her fists and glances back over her shoulder with an inquisitive twist of her lips. “Got it.”

“Right. Now, spread your feet a bit.” In encouragement, Yaz taps their toes against the insides of her ankles to nudge them further apart. “And plant them to the ground.”

“Mm-hm,” Ash mumbles. Yaz doesn’t have time to work out why it sounds so breathless. 

Yaz touches her hip with a red-gloved fist and does everything they can to avoid their eyes wandering. “Then bend your knees.”

Obediently, Ash straightens her back and crouches a touch more, as though caught mid-squat. “Perfect.” 

A stolen glance never hurt anybody, right? 

The action also means their hips meet for a brief instant and, swallowing, Ash turns her head back over her shoulder. With a hand still pressed to her hip, Yaz can’t wipe away the bead of perspiration tumbling down their cheek to their jaw. 

Ash tracks its journey and a pink tongue swipes over her bottom lip. Yaz’s stomach clenches without their doing. 

Before they fall further into their trance, Yaz jumps back, disguising the movement in a jog back to their own spot. 

Cheeks redder than they’d last witnessed, Ash nods. “Um — gimme your worst.”

“You’re gonna regret that,” Yaz murmurs hoarsely, on the brink of composure. 

Once Ash raises her pads to chest level, Yaz delves right back in with a series of quick, stylish jabs and hooks. Each one lands with experienced precision. 

Looking noticeably more relaxed in her stance, Ash barely sways from her position. At some point, bypassing Yaz’s irritation, she even breaks into an excitable grin. 

* * *

The changing room is empty by the time Yaz slinks off to the adjoining showers. They always prefer it this way; no pressure; no scrutiny; no prying eyes awaiting them upon their completion. 

After towel-drying their hair, Yaz wriggles into a pair of loose black jeans, a black and white polka dot button up and their usual leather jacket. They’re slipping into their doc martens when Ash ambles inside seemingly cluelessly. 

“Have you seen my —”

Yaz looks up in surprise, furrowing their brows. They’re about to ask what Ash is doing on the not-so-hygienic floor when she cries out in triumph. 

“Ah-ha! Knew you’d be in here somewhere. Can’t get away that easily, y’little shits,” 

They don’t quite know what they were expecting, but when Ash scoops up a half-empty pack of biscuits and tucks it into the pocket of her scruffy denim jacket, Yaz is almost relieved. 

“Sorry ‘bout that. Laters, Yaz!”

“Only my —” Yaz starts, “ _ friends _ can call me Yaz…” they continue at the closing door. 

* * *

When Yaz agreed to go out for drinks with Ryan, Graham and a handful of other improving boxers, they were not expecting an additional tagalong. 

Glaring into the depths of their pint, Yaz only half listens in as Graham sings his praises to the blonde sat opposite. 

They don’t  _ want _ to listen, but a twisted, self-destructive part of their brain solely hones in on the words leaving his lips and the faux-modest grin on Ash’s balmed lips. 

“Alright, mate?” Ryan prompts beside them, making them start. “Sorry. You’re quiet, is all.”

Yaz takes a healthy sip of their beer and hisses as it burns on its way down. “Fine, yeah. No Tibo tonight?”

“He’s on nights this week,” Ryan informs them with a disappointed twist of his lips, but it lifts when Yaz’s expression softens. “I know what you’re gonna say, so shut up.”

“Ryan,” Yaz sing-songs, nudging his shoulder with their elbow. “Mate, do you have a  _ crush _ ?”

“I said  _ shut up _ .” 

“Oh my  _ God _ . Graham, have you heard this?”

“Why’s Ryan blushing? Is he talking about Tibo?” 

“Oh, mate. Your  _ grandad _ just got you good. How’d you feel?”

“I hate you so much.” 

* * *

“Ryan told me, by the way, Yaz,” Graham starts once his grandson has disappeared to the bar for another drink. He shuffles up the bench towards them and looks a little sheepish, if Yaz were to read his expression. “And I’d like to apologise.” 

“Told you wh—” Yaz pauses when they finally meet his gaze, cheeks warming with embarrassment. “Oh — uh. Don’t worry about it, seriously. It’s okay.” 

“No, I should’ve known you were uncomfortable, I’m just — you know I’m not the most observant or educated when it comes to these things. I’ll give it a go, though. I’ll be an expert in this stuff in no time. Ryan even sent me some links to look at.” 

Yaz ducks their head to disguise their suddenly glossy eyes. Throat clogged, they allow their grandfather figure to continue. 

“You’re a good person, Yaz. One of the best I’ve ever met. It’s been an honour to watch you grow up,” Graham supplies in earnest. “Been a long ten years, huh?”

Yaz swallows, lifting their head but allergic to his gaze. They sniff, just once. Vulnerability is never a desire of theirs. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” 

* * *

The next time Yaz glances towards the bar, they find Ash cosying up to a pretty, dark-skinned woman dressed in leather. Her hand has settled on the small of her back as though to pass her but it remains in place, as bold as brass. 

Something inside them snaps when the curly-haired woman responds in kind rather than shaking her off. 

“Shots?” they ask Ryan. There’s not a chance he’ll say no. 

“ _ Yes _ , Yaz. Now we’re talking.”

The bar is bustling when Yaz sidles up to order, so it’s oh so easy to eavesdrop. 

Not that that was their plan in the first place. 

“Come here often?” the blonde with her back to them murmurs with zeal. 

The taller of them snickers. “Really? You  _ really _ think that’s going to work?”

“You wound me,” Ash returns. 

“Oh, get off it.”

“Let me buy you a drink to apologise?”

“Persistent, huh?”

“In more ways than one, babe.”

Yaz holds back a shake of their head, accepting a tray of six dark orange shots. In the corner of their vision, the tall stranger is greeting Ash with a subtle smile as though previously Ash might just have been barking up the wrong tree. Now, though… “What’s your name?”

“Ash. Ashley. Babe.  _ ‘God, you’re good’ _ . Take your pick, honey,” Ash drawls, liquid courage making up for the hoarseness to her voice. 

At the sound of a rowdy customer to their right, Ash turns. 

Yaz catches her eye across the bar in an instant. It’s not subtle in the least and Yaz curses themself for the inability to dissolve straight into the floor below. 

They shrink, shake their head and throw back a shot. 

Ash’s eyes are on them all the way back to the table; two telltale holes burning in the back of their shoulders. 

Ever observant, Ryan shuffles up when Yaz sits back down. He takes a shot in one before piping up. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing. What do you think about her, Ryan?”

“About who? Ash?”

“Yes.”

Scared to raise their eyes from the curve of their next shot glass, Yaz gnaws at the corner of their lip and focuses instead on the spread of warm numbness through their veins. 

“I haven’t really got to know her yet but she’s nice, from what I’ve seen. Bit hyper, but I reckon she’s a right laugh,” Ryan answers truthfully. Ash must wave in his direction because he raises a hand and waggles his fingers in her vicinity. Yaz cringes further, sinking into their seat in the hope it might just swallow them up. “Plus, she’s got game. I might ask her for some tips.” 

“Mate,  _ no. _ If you’d heard what I just did, you’d shove that sentence right back down your throat.”

“What’s wrong, Yaz? Scared if Tibo doesn’t work out I’ll win your sister over too easily?” 

“Oh my  _ God _ , I’m going to need more shots.”

* * *

The pub is tilting on its axis. 

The bar is crowded and the room is loud in their ears and there’s a cheesy playlist thrumming in the background full of songs they’d mouth to on the way to holidays and school as a youngster. 

When Yaz slips into the restroom under the judgemental glare of the sign pinned to the door, they do not expect to find Ash and her conquest wrapped up in eachother against the counter. 

Yaz clears their throat when they spy Ash’s hand tucked past the fly of the other woman’s black jeans. Alcohol-fuelled and swelling with frustration, Yaz finally bites. “Are you serious?”

At least Ash has the decency to look sheepish. She jerks her hand back as though burnt, cheeks red from lust and pupils dilated. She fiddles with something before swivelling on the spot and it doesn’t take much to guess her own fly is flayed as well. “Oops. Sorry, mate.”

The room tilts when Yaz turns to the cubicles. They hunch their shoulders and debate slipping their phone from their pocket to speed-dial the one woman who least desires their presence right now. 

“I’m not your mate,” they hiss under their breath, expecting blissful ignorance from their enveloped forms. 

So when Ash raises her voice, Yaz shrinks, grimacing at the door to a typically grubby toilet.

“Do you have a problem?”

The gorgeous being still leant against the sink shifts when Yaz turns back. Zipping her jeans up, she tugs at Ash’s arm. “Come on, Ash. Let’s get out of here.” 

The swiftness of her movements makes Yaz dizzy but, steadying themself, they lean against the doorframe with a lopsided smile. “Yeah. Go on, Ash.” 

Ash seems to give in, but not after a look of hurt flits across her expression. 

Yaz tries not to let it grate at them but guilt infests nonetheless. 

On her way out, Ash pauses. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to be nice sometimes. It’s really not as difficult as it might seem.”

Oh. 

_ Oh _ . 

Yaz stiffens, making it to the counter before they have to cling to the edge with a white-knuckled grip. “You don’t even know me,” they start. But once the barrier has broken, worn down by alcohol and frustration, jealousy and failure, Ash would be damned to fix the cracks in the walls in time. “We’re not friends. You — you can’t just  _ walk _ in here with your swagger and your humongous ego and presume you know even the slightest thing about me.”

When Ash is deemed clueless, Yaz does not let up. Not even if it doesn’t make sense. 

Not even if they’ll regret it in the morning. 

Not even if it propels anyone away. 

“Also, I take my hobby  _ seriously _ . If you don’t, why do you even come? Why’d you turn up? To poke fun?”

Ash scoffs. “Ever heard of fun, Yaz? Letting off some steam? Although  _ clearly _ it doesn’t work for everyone.”

“You have no right to say that. You have  _ no _ right to tell me what I need.”

“Oh my  _ God _ . Have you heard yourself? Do you even know what you’re saying?”

Yaz falls quiet, undecided over whether to throw a left hook her way or throw themselves into a cubicle to empty their stomach of alcohol, food and bitter destain. 

Why do they always rid themselves of anything good?

It’s a matter of what is deserved and what simply comes to pass. 

Neither occurs in Yaz’s case. 

“I get you might be dealing with things, Yaz. But boxing is just that for me — a hobby. And if you’re really this wound up, it can’t just be about the sport, either. Think about that.” 

Yaz remains silent, lips parted and tongue wordless. That is until something in their stomach lurches. 

“Move over.”

Ash bristles. “Excuse me?”

“I’m going to —” The rest of the sentence skids past their lips and hurtles into the cubicle in courtship with their feet. Sinking to their knees in the knick of time, Yaz’s stomach unfurls past their throat and broadcasts itself to the toilet basin. 

A hand comes to rest against their back and, when they’re able to breathe between waves of nausea, they stubbornly shrug it off. 

“Leave me alone,” they croak. 

“What, and let you pass out and choke on your own vomit? I might be pissed but I’m not selfish,” Ash bites. 

Her sternness speaks volumes and with another clench of their stomach muscles, Yaz realises they don’t even know what she does for a living. 

They know next to nothing about her other than the fact her mere presence sets them on edge for a reason they cannot yet deduce. 

At this rate, and with Yaz’s record for failure, they might never know. 

However, they don’t have any more time to think when they pitch forward again. Another round of drinks journeyed past their lips; another groan echoing in the otherwise empty room. 

Ash draws their hair back in their hands and Yaz doesn’t have the energy nor drive to stop her. 

Time passes imperceptibly when spent with your head down a toilet. 

“Are you okay?” Ash voices sometime later. She sounds tired but she’s patient as ever and Yaz has never, ever felt so selfish. 

If Yaz could control anything in their system at that moment, they’d probably give in and cry. 

Folding their arms over the lid and burying their head against them, Yaz finds somewhere to hide. “Peachy.”

Ash laughs quietly from behind them, but it doesn’t shove daggers in their gut this time. They allow her the action without jumping on the defence. 

“You can leave now. Think I’m okay from here,” Yaz mumbles, head thumping alongside their pulse. 

“I’m not leaving until you’re on your feet and I can dump you on Ryan.”

“What about the woman you’ve been pursuing all evening? Wait — where is she? Has she been here the whole time?” Yaz questions without looking around, words tired and slurred. 

“She — um — she’s not here, don’t worry. She left. Got her number, anyway.” 

“Wait —” 

“Don’t think too hard about it. C’mon, up you get.”

Silently, like a child under their final warning, Yaz drags themself up to their feet and settles into step beside her. 

Ash loops one of Yaz’s arms around her shoulders to steady them, but all Yaz can think about is the firmness they find there. On numbed feet, they stumble from the restrooms with Ash’s welcome guidance. 

It doesn’t take long for Ryan to spot them in the thinning crowd of patrons. His jogging steps find them quickly. 

“Whoa. You alright, Yaz?”

Ash grunts when Yaz trips over their own foot and almost topples. “Might want to get them home, mate.” 

“I’m fine. I’m okay. I can walk home. S’not far.” 

When did the floor get so close?

“Don’t think so, Yaz,” Ash chides. 

Another arm curls around them and Yaz leans into it. “Don’t worry, I’ve got them. C’mon, drunkard.” Ryan’s cologne doesn’t smell as appealing as Ash’s musky, earl grey scent. “Cheers for looking after them, Ash.”

Yaz’s heavy head lolls against something solid and sets up home there. 

“No worries, mate. Get home safe, guys.” 

“Need a lift? Graham can squeeze you in as well,” they hear Ryan offer and something inside them clenches. Through a swimming head, they search for Ash’s response. 

“Don’t worry about it. I can —” 

Ryan attempts to steady Yaz once more. “Wasn’t actually a question, Ash. Come on. Group trip, aye?”

Unsuccessfully quelling their groan, Yaz lifts their head intermittently. “Please don’t say that again.”

“Yaz, you’re drooling on my shoulder. You have no right to talk right now.”

Huh. So they are. 

They think they can hear Ash muffling a laugh. For once, it doesn’t grate at Yaz’s temper. 

They blame it on the alcohol in their system. 

Yaz doesn’t remember getting in the car, but they feel eyes on them the instant they’re inside. Slumping against the door, they close their eyes to hold back nausea and escape those watching on in a mixture of pity and amusement. 

“Aren’t you usually the responsible one, Yaz?” Graham chides — they presume he’s up front, choosing a CD to play. 

Yaz grumbles, “Shh, too loud.” 

Graham’s laugh coaxes one from Ryan, too. Even Ash snickers. 

They’re glad rock bottom is amusing. 

“Just let me know if you need me to pull over, love. Lookin’ a bit green back there.” 

The journey is smooth, as always with their coach’s driving. 

It’s so steady and effortless that Yaz drifts until they’re coming to a slow stop. They think they might’ve missed a few conversations. 

They can’t quite bring themself to care. 

Their apartment complex in sight, Yaz finally registers the address Ash had used in their references to them. When they turn in curiosity, Ash is already looking their way. 

Ash blushes first. 

“Mind if I help them inside?” the blonde prompts when Ryan opens Yaz’s door after a handful of failed attempts. 

Yaz grumbles but it’s more because of the cold than anything else. “Where’s my input?” 

“Can you walk?”

“Maybe. Oh. Not really.”

“There’s your input.”

Their flat is warm but laced in Martha’s scent like a hotboxed room at the parties of Yaz’s youth. 

All but hanging from Ash’s shoulder, they simply wish to hide. 

“Have some water. Try and sleep on your side if you can, not your back. Don’t want you choking on your own—” Ash lists off on the way to Yaz’s couch, where they grumble in protest. 

Yaz shakes their head, leaning forward to drop their head into their hands. “It’s not my first rodeo, mate. Don’t worry. You can go.”

Ash lingers by the coffee table, taking an inquisitive scan of Yaz’s lounge before Yaz feels her gaze on them like they’re coming to expect. “Right, yeah. Sorry. Nice place, by the way. Cosier than mine.” 

Can’t she say one thing wrong?

Can’t she be mean? Tell Yaz they’re wrong? Curse them for ruining her night? Let rip into their soul until Yaz commends her for her courage and honesty?

If only it were so easy. 

Yaz feels weak; they feel small and defensive and vulnerable. 

When a great lion is made to feel as small as its kitten counterpart, what do they do? 

They lash out. 

“Just because I let you help me it doesn’t mean we’re suddenly bezzies.”

From the end of the couch, Ash deflates. 

In the low light, deflation turns to pity. 

Yaz does not need their pity. They’re fine on their own. They’re a strong person. 

But when Ash nods solemnly and motions a thumb over her shoulder, then turns on her heels, Yaz can’t help the layer of guilt falling like sand after a turning tide atop the broken, buried cerith shells of their countless other anxieties. 

“See you at training, I guess?” Ash omits to the room. 

Suddenly, she is the smaller one. 

“Yeah, see ya,” Yaz breathes. 

Without another presence, the apartment falls eerily quiet. It’s unsettling, and, for the first time since they’d moved in, Yaz comes to hate each of the four walls confining them.

Another round of loathing one-sided conversations later, Yaz slogs themself to their bedroom. 

Underneath cold covers, they lie awake until sunrise. 

Memories replay behind their eyes in hindrance of slumber; images of dark hair and gaping, youthful grins and the twist of a brand new key in a glossed lock; the first sight of a home meant to be shared, not halved.

But the last influx of imagery they surrender to before restlessly falling into the hands of Hypnos is of green eyes and blonde, messy hair; a bike; a hand at their back; a muffled laugh; the seamless transition of new pronouns into dialogue. 

_ Oh _ . 


	5. tastes like giving in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone's doing well <333

The brilliant white walls and the stench of antiseptic and iodoform are still a shock to her senses even after ten years in an associated service when Ash steps inside Royal Hallamshire hospital. 

The familiar sight of medical students shadowing doctors and nurses with anxious jitters and their tails between their legs pangs at the space beneath her ribs in remembrance. 

Before she can linger on a different reality — a reality in which she’d stuck around until the end of her course and followed it through until the end instead of falling weak to her situation, she recalls the reason she’s here in the first place. 

Slipping her dampened hood down and following the familiar route to the pediatric ward, Ash scans the corridors for a recognisable face. 

“Back again?” a voice pipes up from the doorway. Spinning, Ash greets the other woman with a cheeky grin.

“I try not to make a habit out of it,” Ash simpers, rolling her shoulders at the same rate doctor Martha Jones rolls her eyes. “How’s she doing? Can I see her?”

“Her father is with her at the minute. He heard you wanted to drop in but I’ll have to get his permission first. Just stay here, alright? No wondering about.” 

A warning finger raises and Ash lifts her hands in surrender. “Gotcha. Won’t move a muscle.”

She lasts a third of a second rooted to the spot before gravitating towards the discussion board on the far wall. Adverts for physiotherapy clinics, parental support groups and kids clubs litter the blue felt; the latter of which coaxes Ash to tilt her head. 

The poster reads  _ Free boxing and general fitness classes for ages 5 to 10 _ but the contact noted below is what sparks Ash’s intrigue. 

Yasmin Khan. 

Feisty, stubborn, recluse Yasmin Khan? 

All at once, she gets the idea that she really doesn’t know them as much as she’d thought. 

Ash doesn’t have time to stop and consider why the new information pulls at her chest so mercilessly when Martha clears her throat politely from the doorway. 

Upon turning, feigning innocence, Martha’s eyebrows raise. “Room thirteen. Go on in.”

“Thanks, Martha,” Ash supplies graciously. She straightens her posture and clasps her hands together, collecting herself. “I owe you one.”

“You saved his child. I’m not the one who should be receiving thanks.” Martha nods to the painted door; an ocean-scape complete with colourful, hand-painted fish. 

Ash wrings her hands, deciding not to remind her that the same child is now motherless because of her own lapse of attention. 

Oblivious, or stubbornly refusing to take Ash’s self-destructive bait, Martha taps the clipboard held in her arms. “I’ll be right out here if you need me. Visiting hours end in ten minutes.”

Opening the door takes three and a half practice-runs but eventually, blowing out her cheeks to shake the rest of her nerves, Ash steps past the threshold. 

Save for the steady beeping of the heart-rate monitor in the corner and the snuffles and grunts of a drowsy infant, the private hospital room is quiet. It is that which makes her appearance so much louder. 

In the face of the child’s father and the only other adult in the room, Ash wilts under the weight of grief in his black-rimmed eyes. 

“Uh — hi. Hello. Mister Chandra, right?” Ash starts off, prepared for the worst. “You might not know me but I’m —”

The tall, brown-skinned man stands from his seat so fast and with such sudden recognition that fear strikes deep in Ash’s gut and a serpent weaves around her lungs, rendering them immobile. 

But when strong hands grip at the sleeves of her coat and he takes a heaving breath which comes out as a sob, she finds only gratitude and indebtedness in his cracking mask. “Thank you.”

Brows pinching, Ash freezes. 

Her wide eyes and parted, wordless lips render the father on a mission to assuage her festering guilt. “You saved my baby. Thank you. Thank you so much. I saw you with her — she is alive because of  _ you _ .”

Despite her reservations, Ash accepts the desperate, clutching hug he greets her with. 

She even permits his constant string of thanks and praise to cool the guilt still bubbling beneath the surface like stubborn magma; five minutes of indulgence and belief before cracks breed and oceans swell around rising volcanos. Five minutes of relief from the heaviness on her shoulders and the sheer volume between her ears. 

Just five minutes. No more, though. Then it starts to sound too much like progress; like relief; like forgetting. 

It would be selfish to forget those she had failed. 

When a quiet whimper interrupts the father’s reeling words, Ash pats his shoulder and steps back. She routes around in her pockets for a stray piece of fabric while he — Omar, according to the visitor pass around his neck — scoops his daughter up into his arms.

At the same time as she greets the room with wailing lungs, Ash locates the soft material. 

“Um — so, we were looking through the rubble the day after and — and I found a cardigan which I presumed belonged to your wife, but it wasn’t in the best shape. Anyway, I hope you don’t mind, but I had it sewn into a — well, just look.” Ash fumbles with the pale pink cotton recreated into a small blanket before tucking it close to the infant’s heaving chest. 

All at once, high-pitched cries reduce down to sniffly, huffing breaths. The girl curls tiny hands around the blanket and buries a button nose into the faintly-scented fibres while her father swallows thickly around a slow smile. 

“Do you mind me asking what her name is?” 

“Safiya,” Omar replies, forehead resting against the crown of her head. “Rani used to call her Saffie.”

Another name to add to the list; another debt signed away. 

“I’m really sorry I couldn’t do more,” Ash murmurs when guilt reignites behind her caging ribs. She sets a thin paper card on the side table and backs up. “And I should be going, but if you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Omar shakes his head, steadfast. Safiya clutches the fabric tighter, dropping back to sleep. “You’ve done more than enough. Thank you.”

Ducking her head in silent rebuke, Ash turns for the door. 

She drags a shaky hand down her face and presses the pads of her fingers against her temple to ease a developing headache as she heads back along the familiar corridor. 

Fresh air and sunlight are the only things on her mind. So, when she turns the corner to find Martha conversing with a familiar face, Ash doesn’t have time to react to the brown eyes which stumble upon her. 

Plastering a breezy smile onto her face and shoving her hands back into her pockets, Ash approaches. There’s a bag in their hand which is half-full of… clothes? “Hiya, Yaz.” 

“Hi,” Yaz replies, gaze flitting between Ash and Martha as though surprised they both exist on the same plane. Ash’s brow knits in confusion, but she opts not to dwell on it. 

Martha’s tone is curious. “You two know each other?”

Ash rocks on her toes, eyes on the handful of letters in Yaz’s grasp — all addressed to Martha. 

Something clicks together like the key in a shared home and Ash picks up on the remnants of tension clinging to Yaz’s shoulders and the faint colour to their cheeks. 

_ Ah.  _

Yaz rolls their shoulders in a shrug. “We train together — with Graham.”

The extra detail — like an excuse Ash would make when inviting a girl around in her teens — sends Ash’s thoughts scattering once more, as does Martha’s silent acceptance. 

“How was your head, in the end?” Ash asks when fresh memories of drunken words and stubborn dejection make their presence known. 

Martha’s arms fold but Ash doesn’t spot their expression. She’s too busy following Yaz’s eyes to the station logo tacked to her navy shirt and the words  _ crew manager _ inscribed over the right of her chest. She pops a brow at the surprise in their eyes. 

“Fine, yeah. Good.”

Sobering up from the look on Yaz’s face and sensing the returning tension between Martha and them, Ash throws a thumb over her shoulder and steps back. “I’d better be off, anyway. Thanks for that, Martha. Hope I’m not back again too soon.”

“No problem, Ash. Don’t get into too much trouble.” Martha pats her forearm, leaving Yaz to stare like a dog denied attention in favour of another furry sibling. 

Ash likes the way jealousy looks on them. 

“Can’t promise anything,” she murmurs, refusing to tame the smirk on her lips. Is she flirting? When she turns to Yaz, she gets her answer; they’re glaring holes into the side of her head. 

Something sparks in the pit of Ash’s stomach. Her smirk is mischievous. “See you at training, Yaz.”

Turning for the exit, she leaves a hushed exchange of voices behind. 

* * *

If she were looking for a day filled with distractions, Ash is let down the instant she heads into the station. 

She’s tucking her stuffed rucksack into her locker door — opting to head straight to practice from work this evening — when Jack leans into the wall beside her. “Hi, gorgeous,” he chimes, ruffling the mop of blonde hair atop her head. “Doctor Song wants to see you.”

The door refuses to close, so she drives the steel toes of her boot into the rusty metal with a grunt. It clicks into place before she comprehends what Jack had said. “Wait — what? Why?”

“It’s about the house fire last week. We’ve all got individual meetings with her today,” he shrugs. “Standard procedure stuff, apparently.”

“Since when?” 

“Don’t ask me. The higher-ups are insisting on it. May as well get it over and done with, if I were you.” He claps a hand against her back and Ash huffs, straightening out her shirt. 

“Pfft,” she grumbles. “Does she want me right this instant?”

“Yep. She’s in the briefing room. Good luck, babe.” 

On the way to the corridor, Ash pauses. “Don’t let Bill near my biscuit stash while I’m gone?”

“Gotcha, kid. Try to keep professional this time. I don’t want to have to save your arse because you can’t keep it in your pants.”

Ash snorts, catching her tongue between her teeth when she grins. “I never make promises I can’t keep.”

She hears a distinct  _ that’s my girl _ in her wake as she ambles down the corridor towards the room usually saved for large meetings. Nudging the door open with her elbow, she steps inside with an easy grin. 

The head of curls she’d last seen under  _ very _ different circumstances turns upon her arrival, and full lips twist into an achingly empathetic smile. “Hello again, sweetie.”

“Hiya, Doctor Song.”

“River. Please.” 

“Sounds familiar,” Ash indulges with a snicker which makes the corner of River’s mouth twitch. She slips into the seat opposite the older woman and hooks an ankle over her knee, her posture relaxed compared to the apprehension steadily rising in her stomach. 

“I just need ten minutes of your time today, if that’s alright?” River starts, notebook and pen at the ready. Ash braces herself. 

“‘Course, no problem,” she nods, toying with the hem of her cargo trousers at the same time as she hides her anxieties in a box, locks it away and swallows the key down in a heavy gulp. 

“Alright, perfect. Let’s get started with a simple question. How are you doing?”

Funny how a simple question can also be the hardest. 

“Good. Fine, yeah. King of okay, me.”

River hides an elegant chuckle in a huff of air from her lungs. Ash keeps her eyes north of the v-neck blouse hugging her chest. “And how’s your work to home life at the moment? Do you have a solid social group? A partner?”

Ash grins, licking her lips. “Who’s asking?” 

“ _ Ashley.”  _

Putting her distraction techniques on the backburner, Ash shrinks into her seat with a sheepish laugh. “Sorry. Um, yeah. I mean — we’re like a family, my crew, so it makes working a lot easier and a  _ ton _ less stressful. And I’m single. Not really the relationship type.”

A sculpted eyebrow raises at the last note of information as though she’s jotting it down somewhere behind her eyes. The hint of concern there makes Ash avert her gaze.

“It’s always best to have strong relationships with colleagues,” River surmises. 

“Teamwork makes the dream work, huh?” Ash returns — although what kind of teamwork she’s insinuating she leaves up to River to decide. She thinks she spots the hint of a smirk forming despite her professional facade. 

“What about your free time? Do you have any hobbies at the minute?”

Ash swaps her ankle over and rolls her shoulders in a nonplussed shrug. “I took up boxing about a year ago. I made it into the national contest, recently, actually. So there’s that. I don’t really have the time for much else. I can make a  _ mean _ spag bol, though, if you’re interested?”

When River glares in a way which suggests Ash really should just let the woman do her job first, she slumps back in her seat with flushed cheeks and a coy smile. 

“That’s great,” River concludes, turning to a fresh page in her blue notepad. If Ash were to edge closer, she could likely read the words scrawled along the paper in elegant calligraphy. “Now, about the incident which happened last week — are you comfortable discussing it with me?”

Shifting her position so she can tuck fidgety hands beneath her thighs and hunch her shoulders unconsciously, Ash nods, quick and fleeting. “Sure.”

“Can you tell me what happened between leaving the station and returning back here after the callout?”

A slow drag of oxygen into her lungs and a surge of dread and guilt to her gut later, Ash retraces her steps from a week prior. 

The more River scribbles across the page, the faster Ash’s heart thumps against her ribs. 

She’s oblivious to the way her leg bounces until River glances down in observation and, all at once, Ash feels like an animal held captive in a science lab enduring pokes and prods until she loses sight of the walls she’d tried so hard to keep maintained. 

The curly-haired counsellor asks her if she’d like to take a break when Ash recounts the most tension-filled minutes of her mission through strained vocal cords and a lump in her throat. 

Shaking her head in stubborn refusal, Ash sniffs, curls her arms around her waist on a self-given hug, and marches on. 

“I think I’d like to have another session with you in a week’s time, if that’s okay?” River divulges as she leads Ash towards the door an unknown length of time later. 

Worry etches her brow in a show of concern Ash finds unwelcome, so she does what she does best. “What we had was good back then, y’know. Feels like only yesterday.”

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, River folds her arms and leans against the doorway. “Oh, get back to work, you  _ dog _ .”

“You always say the sweetest things,” Ash flirts unashamedly, padding into the corridor and fluttering her lashes like a spoilt puppy yearning for attention. 

River scans the corridor for personnel before breaking into a snicker. “Might I also suggest you find someone to get that frustration out on, Ash. You’re like a horny teenage boy.”

“Y’tellin’ me to get laid?” Ash interjects, wetting her lips and narrowing her eyes. “Or are you offering?”

“Bugger off, Ashley.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Ash gives in, walking backwards toward the break room with a cocky simper.

That is until Bill swings open the door behind her and she collides with the solid surface with a groan. 

“Oh, shit. Sorry, mate,” Bill snickers, offering a limp hand to her hunched form. “Didn’t see you there over the size of your ego.”

River slips back inside the meeting room with a shake of her head and Ash glares holes into Bill’s proffered arm. “I hate you so much.”

* * *

The lump at the back of Ash’s head is still tender when she rolls up to training ten minutes later than planned and distinctly frazzled. 

A spontaneous meeting with her superiors and a prank call mean there’s enough frustration toying at her nerves to leave her desperate to drag her gloves on and plant her fists against stubborn leather. 

“You’re late,” Graham chides playfully when she emerges from the changing rooms no less than five minutes later. 

She winces at his comment at the same time as her fingers brush her bruising skin in an effort to tie her hair up. Grunting, she offers a guilty grimace. “Yeah. Sorry, Graham. Got caught up with work.”

The greying man softens, clasping his hands together. “No worries, love. Start on some warmups and then I’ll let you and Yaz know what we’re doing today.”

“Thanks, coach.”

Light on her toes, Ash jogs over to the fixed circuit set up in the corner of the expansive room where Yaz is stretching their arms behind their head, earphones plugged into their ears. 

“Hiya,” Ash greets them with a wave before casting her gloves aside and eyeing the pull-up bar. 

Plucking an earphone from their ear, Yaz scans Ash’s top with a twitch of their lips. “Your top is inside out.”

“Huh?” Dishevelled, Ash turns on the spot, seeking out that which betrays her. The label sticking out from her collar makes her face pinken in revelation. “Oh, so it is. Had a bit of a head-wonk, today. Easy mistake.” 

Before she can think better of it, Ash curls her fingers around the hem of her tank top and tugs it over her head in a flourish. By the time she’s turned the material back out, Yaz has beaten her to the pull-up bar. 

There’s a darkened tint to their neck and cheeks when she turns and Ash bites at the inside of her cheek to keep herself slipping back into her flirtatious default. Readjusting her top, she steps aside to admire their form instead. 

“How many of those can you do?” Ash questions three smooth pulls later, hands on her hips and eyes decidedly south. 

She flits them back up in time for her training partner to respond. 

Yaz scoffs, dropping down to their feet and dusting off their palms. “More than you ever could.” 

“Is that a challenge?” Ash prompts. 

Yaz squares their shoulders, takes a swig of water from their bottle, and arches a brow. 

* * *

“Oh, come  _ on _ , guys,” Graham grumbles good-naturedly when he finds them both immersed in their own competitiveness. “Does everything have to be a contest between you two?”

But Ash can’t hear the rest of his complaints over the sound of her own thumping heart and staggered breaths. Her palms are sore and her arms are already protesting. 

“How many?” she grunts. 

Yaz smirks. “Seven. Still got six more to go if you want to match me.”

Bypassing her discomfort if only to wipe the smug expression from Yaz’s face, Ash heaves herself back up until her chin taps the topside of the metal bar. 

However, when the younger of them both wets her lips at the slither of stomach on show with each pull-up, Ash’s concentration fails her. 

Her shoulder twinges a second before her arms give out and she lands on her feet with the grace of a parachuting fawn. “Ah,  _ shit _ .” 

“You alright, love?” Graham’s voice carries a mixture of concern and exasperation and, catching her breath through clenched teeth, Ash shakes him off.

Yaz keeps quiet but studies her as if working to decide quite how to react. 

Whatever conclusion they come to, Ash leaves them to it. 

“Fine. I’m fine. All good,” Ash chuckles sheepishly, wiping the sweat from her brow. 

“Now, if you’re done acting like teenagers,” Graham chides in a way which has both of them dropping their gaze to their feet. “I propose a friendly match to see where you’re both up to.”

All at once, Ash’s throbbing shoulder is cast to the back of her mind and she catches Yaz in a smug, competitive glance. 

“I’m in,” Yaz answers with confidence, hands on their hips. 

Ash follows a trickle of perspiration from their temple to their neck, to the neckline of their baggy green t-shirt. She stamps down on the igniting embers in her core which follow. “Me too.”

* * *

Yaz wins four out of five rounds with impeccable ease and expert stamina and Ash would be lying if she said each arrogant smirk and successive punch thrown her way didn’t stoke at her gut like a fire unattended. 

She’s down to her sports bra and tight running shorts as she checks over her shoulder in the square mirror in the corner of the changing room — a strained muscle quickly deduced — when Yaz clears their throat from somewhere behind her. 

Ash seeks them out in the mirror’s reflection to find them wringing out their washed hair with a purple towel, their gaze on Ash’s mostly bare back. 

“Um — that looked like it hurt,” Yaz states, straightening up. 

Head cocked in surprise, Ash leans against the counter and grips the weathered edges either side of her hips. Her voice and mind are laden down with fatigue, which explains the slightly accusing tone when she queries, “Concern? That’s new.”

Yaz stiffens and Ash’s system floods with regret. When she takes in their downtrodden expression and surprisingly subdued disposition, something beyond her ribs cries out. 

But they can’t blame her for being wary.

“Sorry. I mean — yeah, it aches a bit,” she corrects. Shrugging her shoulders hurts but she does it without thinking. At the same time as she gives in to a wince, Yaz’s hand twitches at their side and their brows furrow. 

There’s so much happening behind their brown eyes that Ash almost gets whiplash upon delving past brown irises. 

“I’ve had worse, though,” Ash adds. 

The corners of Yaz’s eyes crinkle and their lips purse when they’re thinking. They seem to be debating something for a long few seconds until Ash raises her brows in question. 

“So, you’re a firefighter?” they finally supply. It’s the most interest they’ve shown since their first meeting and it strikes Ash as a possible turning point. 

She reaches for her sweatshirt, but pauses in the process of pulling it on when she notices a pair of eyes boring into the defined muscles of her stomach. Ash has always kept up with her fitness and it’s nice to see her effort go appreciated once in a while. 

Plus, if it’s  _ Yaz _ of all people blatantly checking her out, well, she might never get this opportunity again. 

It’s not often the sun stops to admire its inferior constellations.

Hang on — didn’t they ask her something?

Ash tilts her head. “Wait, how did you —”

Yaz glimpses up from toned skin to Ash’s smirking expression and flushes, turning to hurriedly stuff their kit into their black duffel bag. “Your uniform at the hospital, earlier,” they explain distractedly. 

_ Idiot _ . “ _ Ah _ . Of course. I love my uniform. Proper comfy.”

Ash takes the opportunity to slip her sweatshirt over her head in the awkward silence which follows, then run her fingers through her damp hair. 

In the process of cursing herself for her sudden inability to carry a conversation, Ash is reminded of the way in which Yaz and the familiar doctor interacted earlier in the day. 

Innocently, she poses her query. 

“So — uh — what’s your deal with Martha? Are you guys —” 

Yaz spins back around with an indecipherable look in their eyes. It’s something close to guilt. 

“That’s none of your business,” they interrupt, hefting their bag over their shoulder and looking to leave. 

Hands raised in surrender, Ash passes them to fetch her lazily discarded gloves from the coat hook. The action leaves her standing between Yaz and the door. “Just wondering if it means I have a shot with her.” 

Yaz’s upper lip curls into a grimace and they wince, then look her up and down. Jealousy isn’t subtle in their eyes. 

Something strikes a match in Ash’s very core at their proximity, welcoming it with open arms and the remnants of a bonfire to burn.

“She’s out of your league, mate,” Yaz claims without hesitance. 

Ash grins — if Yaz were a canine they’d be snarling. “Mate?” she repeats, “I thought we weren’t friends?”

Yaz rolls their eyes, reaching between them for the door handle and blowing out their cheeks. “You’re in my way. Move.”

Ash is thriving off of it, tongue caught between her teeth while she observes Yaz’s waning patience. There’s nothing sinister behind it — if Yaz really wanted to leave she could do so easily. “Y’not exactly making it very easy, babe.”

“You’re always so smug,” Yaz goads, making no move to leave. 

“Thanks for noticing, handsome.” 

Ash can’t tell why they blink in such surprise. 

They freeze, then, fingers curled around the rusty metal door handle and eyes slipping and falling down the bridge of her nose to her lips. Their restraint is admirable. “You think you’re brilliant, don’t you? You think you’re so smooth and cool and suave.”

Ash tilts her head and flutters her lashes. They’re close enough to touch but instead of acting on her urges she simply smiles wider, wetting her bottom lip. 

Yaz follows the journey of her tongue despite how much they don’t want to — or perhaps Ash has it wrong? Perhaps they  _ do _ ? Perhaps that’s why their grip on the door handle has turned white-knuckled and perhaps that’s why the fingers of their other hand are twitching just shy of her hip. 

“Yeah, I do. Is this a listing game, now? ‘Cause I have some adjectives for you, too.” 

“ _ God _ ,” Yaz growls, taking a breath. “Y’ever tried not talking for a minute?”

“Nah. Pretty chatty, me. Love to talk. Don’t you?” Ash reaches between them, fingers toying at the ties of Yaz’s hoodie, testing; teasing; luring them in. 

Yaz launches forward. 

Ash doesn’t know who initiates the kiss, but as she’s shoved back against the wall with a  _ thud _ and a distinct lack of mercy and Yaz winds a hand into her hair to tug and jostle, she can’t find it in herself to care.

Even when Yaz’s free hand slips just underneath her jumper to grip, iron-like, at a slim hip, Ash can only moan feebly into their wanton, pursuing mouth. 

As first kisses go, this one might just have topped the mark already.


	6. MBD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this isn't a soft one guys <3 take care of urselves !
> 
> tw// nsfw. anxiety & depression

Like a puppet at the hands of a ventriloquist, Yaz cannot control the way they relinquish even a slither of space between their body and Ash’s. Nor can they help but delve a tongue past her lips and grant themself a taste of peppermint and sugar and something more dangerous and inebriating.

Ash’s fingers curl into their hair and Yaz grunts, shoving a strong thigh between her legs and tensing the muscle where she needs it most. 

The whimper of approval they recieve in response ignites something low in Yaz’s gut and the mere taste of her stokes the flames it brings to life. They slip a hand down to her waist and around to her thigh before hitching it over their hip. 

Ash takes no time to trap Yaz’s hand between her backside and the white brick wall at her back. With a sigh, she tugs at their scalp, her free hand iron-like in its grip on their waist. 

They’re loud and uncoordinated with barely restrained want and Ash’s head lands against the wall with a thump once more when Yaz moves their attack to her neck instead. 

“ _Fuck_ , Yaz,” their opponent hisses, her neck a willing pincushion to Yaz’s frustration. When they slip a cool palm beneath her sweatshirt to span her stomach muscles en route to her chest, Ash curls into them with a moan, hips twitching. 

Yaz’s teeth close in on Ash’s jumping pulse and they refuse to let up until the skin is red and angry and Ash sags against their chest, a fresh groan greeting the room.“S’this what you wanted?” they growl, groping blindly at Ash’s chest through the fabric of their sports bra. “Are you happy now?”

“Fucking ecstatic,” Ash gripes, smirking. Yaz swipes their tongue over the worried skin and catches the rise of a nipple between their fingers. The next time Ash catches their eye, they twist sharply. 

Green eyes rolling back and hips twitching in a needy motion, Ash lifts a hand to muffle their responding groan against her knuckles. 

“Don’t be shy, I wanna hear you,” Yaz purrs. They pause to take in a sharp inhale when Ash’s hips continue to shudder against their thigh, heat emanating from her in volumes. “Been a while, has it? You’re like a bloody wind up toy.” 

Dropping her fist to reach for Yaz’s hand instead, Ash guides it to where she’s hot and wanting through the thin fabric of her shorts. “Shut up.”

“With _that_ tone,” Yaz starts, unwilling to admit how much the move stokes the fire in their gut and casts any other thoughts into disarray. Their cheeks burn and they clear their throat. “I don’t think y’deserve any of this.”

The instant they move to step away, though, Ash scrabbles for purchase on their waist. Her voice comes out as a breathy mewl. “ _C’mon_. Yaz, you can’t just —” 

“Look at yourself,” Yaz snickers, watching the join of their entwined bodies to commit to memory the way Ash pitches forward into their pursuing thigh. Their fingers twitch against the seam of her shorts and, receptive, Ash grunts low in her throat. “You’re like a dog in heat.” 

“ _Yaz_ ,” Ash whines, cheeks pink. 

There’s a crease between her brows which tugs at the claws wrapped around their heart and, in an effort to ignore it, Yaz presses firmer between Ash’s trembling thighs. “Tell me you want —”

“ _Yaz_? Are you still in there?” Ryan calls, following a series of knocks. 

Each resounding _thump_ of his knuckles draws them back to the present, bit by bit.

As though coming around from a drug-fuelled haze, Yaz jerks back on stumbling feet. 

Grabbing their discarded bag, they bolt for the door with Ash’s slackened jaw and wrecked composure stuck fast to the backs of their eyelids. 

Ryan earns a swift wave and a hurried _“I’ve got to go_ ,” on Yaz’s journey towards the exit. 

Yaz tries desperately not to let his confused, downtrodden frown manifest beneath their ribs and take a shot at their guilty conscience. 

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

What have they done?

Their fingers shake around the handlebars of their bike as they start the motor up, and they briefly curse themself for not layering up when the cold evening air meets their damp hair. 

Securing their black helmet from the back compartment over their head, Yaz pulls onto the road sans returning their gaze to the weathered gym. 

The city streets pass in a blur. Amber, red and white lights paint the glossy exterior of their helmet and the engine rumbles in a show of supremacy over the tarmac below. 

In this case, Yaz is still in control. They are still a force to be reckoned with. 

Disguised beneath their helmet, they are an unknown, so unscrutinised by default. 

They’re adapting to the quiet emptiness of their flat day by day, but it still greets them like a cement wall each time they slip inside. 

Dumping their helmet atop the coat hook in the hallway and shedding their jacket, Yaz meanders through their flat to the open plan kitchen and living room and slumps onto the couch with a groan. 

With the remnants of arousal still toying at their stomach muscles and between their thighs, they drag a cold palm down their face and reach for the phone stashed in their pocket. 

It happens by instinct; an eleven-digit number tapped out by thumbs used to the pattern. 

They barely spare a glance at the contact name before the line opens and they curl their spare hand into the hem of their top. 

Laughter and jeering chatter greets their ears first, then an achingly familiar voice. 

_“Hello? I didn’t check the caller ID, sorry — who is this?”_

Yaz’s throat clogs up with belated regret and they take a steadying few breaths before responding. “Uh — hi. It’s Yaz.”

Martha is the one to inhale sharply this time; like shock traded. 

_“Oh.”_ There’s a pause which Yaz takes advantage of to lay back, hand dithering at the waistband of their joggers. Martha’s tone is formal and slightly stilted, as though she no longer knows how to address them without earnest. There’s still concern in her voice, though; concern which furrows at Yaz’s brow and serves to confuse. 

_“Hi, Yaz. You okay? Did I leave anything else behind by accident? I can come and grab it this week, I’m sure—”_

“No, no. It’s okay,” Yaz interrupts. “I actually just — I just wanted to call, see how you’re doing. Or — y’know, if you’re busy. Tonight, to be specific. But it sounds loud where you are, so you’re probably out with friends, right? Nevermind, I can just—” 

They’re never usually this awkward. Frustration makes them impatient and, blowing out their cheeks, Yaz resists the urge to simply cut to the chase and shove their hand into their boxers. 

Martha’s approach is that of mild worry, again, and Yaz frowns — do they sound distressed without their own knowledge? What does Martha hear in their tone that they can’t?

_“Yaz, are you alright?”_

Shaking their head, Yaz realigns back to their mission. It’s good to hear her voice, even if it’s muffled somewhat by others. 

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. just needed to — y’know, let off some steam, maybe. Are you out somewhere?” Yaz poses with a hint of suggestion. 

_“Just having some drinks with the girls from work. Sure you’re okay? You’re at your flat, right?”_

Jealousy strikes through their chest and they push it down with a shovel and cement, but it still seeps through like a stubborn leak through thin wallpaper. 

_Your flat_ , she’d phrased it. 

A matter of months ago, it would’ve been a home. 

“Will you be there long?” Yaz asks with a tight throat. 

“ _I mean — yes. Probably. Unless…”_ she hesitates with a troubled sort of noise. _“Yaz, what are you trying to say?”_

Perturbed, Yaz quietens. “Are you alone right now?”

The commotion on the other end dims. 

_“I’ve just stepped outside. What’s happening, Yaz?”_

Playing it off as a casual affair, Yaz lilts their tone in a way Martha will be able to dissect with ease. “What are you wearing right now?”

Martha’s silence is telling. 

Yaz cringes, losing confidence fast. “It’s just one time. It’s — It’s been a long day, Martha. I just really need —” 

Martha’s tone is scolding and Yaz flinches, worrying their bottom lip. 

_“Are you_ **_seriously_ ** _calling me right now because you’re horny and you want help scratching an itch? Christ, Yaz. I thought you were calling me because you were in trouble, or you were about to do something stupid.”_ Emitting a shaky sigh, Martha lowers her voice. _“You can’t fucking do that.”_

Lips parted around a wordless tongue, Yaz sits up, cheeks red with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Martha, I’ve just — it’s been a really weird day and —” 

_“Don’t. Just… don’t, Yaz. I’m going now. Hope you can get your rocks off on your own.”_

“ _Martha_ , I’m —” 

The line cuts off before Yaz can form the words to explain. 

Fuelled by guilt and irritation, Yaz tosses their mobile aside without a care to where it lands. They sink back into the couch and draw a dark purple cushion to their chest, where they remain until any light still inking the sky blue outside their windows is drowned in black. 

  
  


Music pounds in their ears at the same pace as Yaz’s trainers land on cracked pavements when they breeze through Sheffield’s sleeping streets a matter of hours later. 

They run until their lungs protest with each transfer of oxygen through their system; until sweat drenches their loose tank top and their body cries out for hydration. 

Yaz slows to a steady jog a street away from their flat but it’s still a fast enough pace that, when a car pulls out from a driveway just a metre in front of them, they jerk to a halt and land awkwardly on their right ankle. 

A throbbing pain starts at the joint of their ankle and leg but spreads up their calf in seconds. Hunched over, Yaz leans against a nearby wall and breathes through the sudden pulsing sensation. 

The rest of their journey is spent in a painful, breathless haze. Yaz steps through their front door with a limp, reaching out for a giving hand that isn’t there. 

Grateful for the exhaustion which means at least slumber won’t be an issue, Yaz slinks into the shower like an injured feline. 

They don’t remember falling asleep, but when the shrill sound of their ringtone awakens their senses with a jolt the next morning, the towel still wrapped loosely around their form provides their answer. 

Turning their phone onto loudspeaker as they check over their swollen ankle, Yaz grimaces at the pukish red and purple painting the epicentre of their discomfort. 

When they put pressure on the pad of their foot to gather some clothes from their drawers, pain strikes up their leg like a jagged lightning bolt. 

_“Why didn’t you tell me? Were you just going to wait until I worked it out myself?”_ their sister’s voice crows in accusation, drawing Yaz’s attention to the binder cast aside on the floor in panic. 

_How could she know?_

“What?” Yaz counters, brows furrowed. They pluck the offending item up and drag it over their shoulders with a grunt, still adapting to its restrictive nature. 

_“Ryan told me. He said he was worried about you. You should’ve let me know, Yaz.”_

Dread settles in their chest like a dead weight, hooked through each organ and dragging them south. Their heart, however, jumps to their throat. “ _What_ ? He had no right to do th—” 

“I thought you and Martha were good together, Yaz. Did she do something? ‘Cause if she hurt you, I’m going to…” 

  
  


The weight of relief on Yaz’s shoulders forces Sonya’s words out of focus and, hastily, Yaz slips into a pair of grey sweatpants and an old university hoodie. 

With an empty day ahead, they pray the extent of their sprain isn’t enough to cancel their clients for the following few. 

By the time they tune back in, Sonya is still successfully holding a one-sided conversation. 

_“... and then I’ll put all those pieces into a blender and I’ll—”_

“Son, it’s fine. She didn’t do anything. It was… ” _me. It was all my fault,_ “a mutual thing.”

Sonya’s surprise is belated. “ _Oh. But—”_

Guilt re-swelling in their gut from the night previous, Yaz sits up atop dishevelled sheets and tries to calm their bite. “Leave her alone, alright? She didn’t do anything wrong.”

_“Huh. I mean, if you’re bein’ honest, okay.”_

Heaving a sigh, Yaz tests the discoloured skin gracing their ankle to find it tender and bruised, but it doesn’t seem broken. 

At least that’s one thing. 

_“Are you okay?”_ Sonya interrupts, quelling her concern under the pretence of remaining _cool_. Yaz can read her like a book, though, and there’s something anxious in her tone. 

_“I mean — you’ve been together for ages. Y’were great. Want me to come ‘round with some ice cream and chocolate?”_

Yaz scoffs, rubbing tired eyes. They haven’t even checked the time, yet, and shame makes their movements groggy and slow; in tune with their control over the words forming on their tongue. “I’m fine. I’m always fine.” 

_“Nice impression of a broken record, sis.”_

_“_ Shut up. I‘m _literally_ fine. Besides, it were bound to happen eventually.”

_“What do you mean?”_ Sonya asks and, really, it would be _great_ if she could change the subject. 

Yaz isn’t ever that lucky, though. Under pressure from their protesting heart and unyielding regret, Yaz gives in. “I _mean_ I’m always one step away from something bad happening. It always ends up like this, Sonya. But that’s life. That’s just how it is.”

The line is quiet for a short length of time, but long enough for Yaz to begin worrying at the inside of their cheek. 

_“Hang on, this is_ **_Yasmin Khan_ ** _I‘m talking to, right?”_

Exasperated, Yaz gripes, “Yes?”

_“Sorry. Thought I was talking to a grumpy OAP who’s slippers just bailed on them.”_

The puppeteer conducting their hormones leaps out of regularity and casts them astray. “Sonya, what the fuck are you talking about—” 

_“Whoa. Chill. I’m just teasing. Why are you so wound up? What’s wrong?”_

She’s not always been the best with words, but her blunt honesty skips any deflection.

“I’m _fine_ ,” they groan. “Why does everyone keep asking that?”

_“Take a hint, Yaz. Nobody would be asking you if they couldn’t see that something was wrong.”_

“Well, they’re wrong, because I’m fine, so just _back off_ , alright?” Yaz snaps at the same time as they bite down and iron assaults their tongue. After a hiss, they lap at the weeping slice to soothe the sting. 

_“Yaz—”_

“Sonya.”

Sonya quietens with a defeated sigh.

Something in their chest deflates around a constricting fist. They think it might be their heart. Strange. Most of the time it stays dormant; still, unaffected. Disconnected from the rest of their body. Through biology or just plain stubbornness, Yaz can’t tell. Won’t tell. _Who cares_? A petty, internal voice echoes above the rest. 

Sonya is still silent bar fruitless sighs. Yaz’s defences crumble, one by one. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m sorry, Sonya,” they breathe, tension easing in their shoulders and jaw. 

_“Yaz?”_

Yaz swallows. Their sister’s voice lilts with emotion. 

“Yeah? You okay?” they pose sheepishly. 

_“If I said I were struggling with something — like really,_ **_really_ ** _struggling, then refused everybody’s help, what would you do?”_

Yaz worries their bottom lip, thumbnail catching at the cuticles of their index finger and repeating until a bead of blood forms. They continue still. “Why—” 

_“Just answer the question, Yaz.”_

In a quieter tone, Yaz ducks their head to study the rouge substance coating the corner of their nail as they reply. “I’d reach out, and I’d keep trying to get through to you until you opened up. Even if it took a while.”

_“There we go, then,”_ Sonya concludes gently; like a sigh of relief. _“I’m coming over this evening. We’re watching a film and ordering takeaway.”_

Yaz searches beyond their cerebrum for an excuse; a reassurance; _some_ kind of reason not to exist for the day — but nothing can be found. Perhaps Sonya is wisening in their age; perhaps they do need this. 

“Do I get a choice about that?” Yaz poses anyway, because a facade is hard to shake. 

_“No. See you later, alright?”_

“Okay.”

_“I love you.”_

Warmth envelops them; security comes in waves. They don’t let on, though. “Right, yeah. Love you too.”

_“Laters, idiot.”_

The line cuts off a second before Yaz can curse her. With a groan, they roll over and bury their head in their pillow to grant themself another period of slumber-like stasis. 

Accept, with no one else nagging in their ear or encouraging them into a corner, Yaz’s foggy mind wanders freely. 

Slow and groggy but infatuated with self-deprecation, their conscience sends visuals of blonde hair and hooded green eyes to the backs of their lids each time Yaz closes their eyes. 

Grumbling out a cuss, Yaz shifts onto their back and glares holes into the plaster above. 

When it’s white-painted nature casts pale skin to the forefront of their mind, they ball their hands into fists and grit their teeth in resistance. 

If only the heat at the apex of their thighs could resist so effectively. 

Wetting their lips, Yaz reaches for the undisturbed pillow on the opposite side of their double bed. The reason for its unemployment comes flooding back the second they draw it to their chest and take a slow inhale. 

The smallest of traces of amber and cedar still cling to the fabric. Martha’s scent. 

Yet, when they close their eyes and slip a hand beneath the band of their sweatpants, Yaz’s mind wanders once more. 

More precisely, they think about how close they came to giving in; the desperate breaths Ash had emitted when they kissed her up a storm and made their mark on her neck.

The latter is what finally breaks their composure and forces Yaz to test the waters. 

_Waters_ being the operative word. They’re swollen and slick to the touch when their fingers find base and draw slow circles around a sensitive nub. 

Thoughts of Martha and their prior encounters serve as pittance to the ruined knit between Ash’s brows and the pink of her tongue when she’d licked the residue of their kiss from her lips. 

Helpless, Yaz tips their head back and grunts with the extra pressure the memory encourages. Lifting a knee to plant their foot against plush sheets, Yaz arches into the motions of their working fingers. 

Ash’s breathy sighs replay without their consent but, _God_ , do they twist at their gut and lurch them towards the edge like a weightless being flung without hesitation. 

A short few minutes later, Yaz barely manages to sink a digit past sopping flesh before their muscles tense up and pulse with sensation. So dizzied by the speed at which they finish, they don’t notice the name balancing on their tongue until it slips free. 

_“Fuck, fuck,_ **_fuck_ **,” Yaz pants in hindsight, dragging their hand from their joggers and padding on trembling legs into the en suite. 

After washing their hands, Yaz leans against the sink and bares their reflection a shame-faced expression. The person looking back at them is haggard; brown eyes an oxymoron of disconnection and desperate emotion. 

“Does everyone else feel like this?” they query their double.

No response comes within the confines of glossy bathroom tiles. Yaz shakes their head, ducking their chin to their chest with a huff of laughter. “S’dumb. That only works in films.”

The day passes like fog in the dips and lowlands of countryside roads in winter; indecipherable and slow-forming. 

No matter how many films; dramas, documentaries they swipe through, nothing captures Yaz’s attention for long enough to hook and reel them in. 

By the time evening comes, they’ve begun staring haplessly at their ankle as though the sheer will for it to improve can mend the bruised skin and strained ligaments. 

When knuckles wrap against their front door, they spring up on instinct, but a sharp jolt in reminder makes them slump back with a wince. 

“Come in!” Yaz calls meekly from the couch instead. As if they weren’t already useless enough. 

“I got too hungry on the way here so I’ve already ordered takeaway. Don’t worry, I got your fav—” Sonya freezes in the doorway at the sight of Yaz’s raised ankle, brows furrowing. “What’s happened?” 

Before Yaz can reply, she drops her bag into the chair opposite and turns for the kitchen. Yaz mourns the loss of quiet. “Do you have any ice?”

“Just strained it when I went for a run last night,” they explain, shrugging their shoulders. “It’s fine, I don’t need anything. It’ll go down in no time— _ow, whatthefuck?”_

Glancing up from the petit pois wrapped in a towel and pressed to their ankle, Sonya’s smile is drowned in sarcasm. “Oops? Were you saying something?”

“I don’t need help,” Yaz grumbles, replacing Sonya’s hand in holding the cold compression against their skin. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“Ah, yes, because _ow_ means _literally_ everything apart from _I’m in a lot of pain_ ,” Sonya drawls with a roll of her eyes. 

When she takes in the sight of Yaz’s cluttered, unkempt flat, however, she turns quiet and pensive. A furtive glance in her direction is all Yaz needs before they shrink further into the couch.

“Yaz…”

“Um — I haven’t picked out a film, so go wild,” Yaz deflects, lying back against the armrest and curling their arms protectively around their chest. If their arms are in the way, their heart can’t seep through their ribs. 

But Sonya lingers beside their glass-cluttered coffee table in open concern. “Yaz, this place is a mess.”

“Y’sound like mum,” 

Clinking three empty glasses together between the fingers of one hand, Sonya grimaces at the half-eaten bowl of cereal sat atop their _Physical Wellbeing for Dummies_ textbook. “Yeah, well, if y’looked after yourself once in a while, I wouldn’t have to mummy you.”

“I was going to wash these just before you turned up,” Yaz refutes, dropping their faux ice-pack aside and standing carefully. Once vertical for the first time in hours, they take a second to blink through weary vision before collecting up the last of the cups and plates and hobbling through to the kitchen. 

Taking the plates from their hands, Sonya piles up the sink and turns the tap on. “You need to learn to ask for help, Yaz. I’d never say no. You know that.”

Hanging their head to follow the rim of the glass clutched between their hands, Yaz groans their objection. “I don’t _need_ anyone’s help. I’m fine on my own.”

Sonya sighs; the sound oozes with heartache. Their grip tightens. 

_Look, you’ve upset her. Well done. Can’t do anything right these days, can you?_

“Yaz…” 

The glass splinters before it even hits the ground. Yaz’s white-knuckled grip relocates to the counter, where they lean towards with an expression curtained by dark locks. 

Sonya’s voice greets their ears but no definable words make it through the white noise of their consciousness. 

Yaz doesn’t lift their gaze en route to the bathroom, the dull throb in their ankle reduced to a mere pinch in comparison to the sizeable lump lodged in their throat like sandpaper. 

Leaning against the inside of the door and working to steady their protesting lungs, Yaz hears hurried footsteps approach. 

“Yaz? C’mon, it was just a glass. It doesn’t matter. I can grab you a new one when I next go into town,” she offers in earnest comfort. Yaz spots her trying the handle but can’t find it in themself to unlock the painted wooden door. “Yaz, unlock the door.” 

If anything, it’s easier to speak through wooden panels than directly to the source. Forehead warm against the cool surface, they bask in their newfound invisibility. 

In anonymity, they find the courage to spare the truth. Still, their voice trembles. “S’not just a glass, Sonya.” 

Sonya’s hand is still on the door handle. Yaz can tell by the way it rattles. With what affliction, though, they’re not sure. They don’t think they want to know. 

She’s patient, though, and it’s just what Yaz needs. 

“I can’t do anything right anymore, Sonya. I just — I just _upset_ people with everything I say or do. I keep pushing and pushing. And I can’t stop,” they confess to varnished wood. It would’ve been a tree, once. To think it’s now used for something akin to confessional makes Yaz laugh bitterly. Broken, they unravel against that which no longer warm with life. 

But that’s not what they want to become. 

_Oh_. 

Yaz sniffs. Northwards, Niagara floods. 

“Sonya, I’m scared.” 

Sonya’s hand eases from the door and Yaz thinks she might lean her head against the other side, too. “Scared of what?” she probes quietly. 

“I’m scared I won’t have anyone left, after all this. I’m scared I’ll push _everyone_ away until no one wants anything to do with me anymore. But I can’t just _talk_ , Sonya. It’s so hard. I don’t know what to do.”

Swallowing around emotion they constantly deny having until it is a shock to their own system, Yaz presses their hand, palm flat, against the door. “I don’t want to get bad again, Sonya. I really don’t. There’s just so much — my head is _so full_.”

Time stretches before them until Sonya replies, her tone tentative. 

“Yaz, can I ask you something?”

Yaz wipes at their cheeks, cursing salty tears for their persistence. “Yes?”

“Has this anger; this frustration — got anything to do with you being non-binary? Because if so, you are so, _so_ wrong to be beating yourself up about a stupid social construct.” 

“No, I don’t think so.” Yaz freezes. “Wait, how did you—” 

“You’ve never been subtle about things you don’t like, Yaz. No offence. You wince any time someone refers to you in a certain way. Y’have done for years. And I’m not as clueless as you think.”

Relief; waves and waves of relief. And yet, still, there’s an anchor tied to their ribcage. _Why?_ “I don’t think you’re clueless,” Yaz corrects in spite of their internal conflict. 

“Yaz?” Sonya interrupts before they can get caught up in finding a reason for their ailment. 

Sniffing like a toddler with a grazed knee, Yaz braces themself. “Yeah?”

“Can you open the door so I can give you a hug?”

Internally, something tames their jumping pulse and trembling breaths. 

Yaz twists the lock and edges the door open. 

That’s all it takes. Warm and solid, Sonya loops an arm around their shoulders and drags them the rest of the way out with a grunt. She smells like fabric conditioner and their family flat and their mother’s favourite fresh linen candle, and Yaz sinks into her through a sigh. 

“We’ll figure this out, okay? But you’ve _got_ to start talking to me,” Sonya speaks over a firm shoulder, where she’s hooked her chin. “And stop presuming everyone has it out for you. You’re likeable, Yaz. Else you wouldn’t have clients, would you?”

Yaz sags against her, a headache forming behind their eyes with how tense they’ve been holding their jaw closed. 

“I’ll try,” they muffle, dropping their forehead to her shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Sonya emits. 

Yaz blows out their cheeks in mild embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sonya squeezes them in her embrace. “You’re already trying.”

When the plates are shoved into the dishwasher and any clean cutlery put away in their relevant drawers, they watch a show neither of them care about to the chorus of their own quiet conversation. 

They share a pizza over plastic red solo cups and, afterwards, Sonya spends as long as she needs untangling wound, matted curls until, weighed down by dry eyes and a heavy chest, Yaz sinks into the bath she runs in their favour. 

Sonya stays on the sofa bed for the night when Yaz excuses themself to feed their fatigued brain. But, when nightmares come, they wake to comfort wrapped around them like a blanket. She sleeps at their side, after that, taking Yaz back to the pillow forts and watching films after dark and traded secrets of their childhood. 

And maybe, just maybe, with Sonya at their side, they might be okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! please don't hesitate to leave kudos or a comment if you can!


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